A Very Freaky Friday
by winter machine
Summary: It's mid-Season 2, and Addison and Derek aren't exactly communicating well. Some savvy, wise friends suggest it would help if they put themselves in each other's shoes. Fine. But they didn't realize it meant *literally.* Addison/Derek reconciliation in lighthearted, freaky form. Contains both body-switching and Addek feels.
1. Not Dreaming

_**A/N: So ... this storyline has been done many times, I know, going all the way back to Greek mythology and catching up to fandom. But you know the deal: there's nothing new under the sun, but new Addek stories somehow happen anyway. This is a little silly, a little funny, a little unrealistic - with a romantic future. It popped into my head today, popped out super fast, and here it is. With a very appreciative hat tip to Mary Rodgers, author of Freaky Friday, this story is dedicated to anyone who has ever though that Addison and Derek could have fixed things if they had just tried a little harder to understand the other person's perspective...**_

* * *

 **A _Very_ Freaky Friday**

* * *

"So, how's it going?"

"It's going … okay." Addison tucks her legs up under her. It's actually sort of peaceful in the trailer by herself. She got off early tonight – for her – and after trying in vain to get Derek to answer her texts, she left alone and rode the ferry in solitary silence. Now she's already in her silky nightgown, cocktail in hand, happy to hear her best friend's voice.

"Okay is good," Savvy says tentatively. Addison can just imagine her expression down the long distance line.

"Yeah. Maybe." Addison sighs.

"It's better than bad," Savvy says, her tone resolute.

"He still hates me."

"He took you back," Savvy reminds her.

"I know, but honestly, Sav? I'm starting to wonder if he did that just so he can make me feel as awful as possible."

Savvy is silent – the way she is when she's trying to get Addison to figure something out without her help. Ugh, she's so predictable.

(Wonderfully so, if Addison is honest, but sometimes … well.)

"He's still ignoring me," she says quietly.

"I'm sorry, Addie. I really am. But…"

"But what?"

"But you need to give him a chance."

"I know that! I'm not objecting!"

"I know you're not objecting," Savvy says soothingly. "My point is, just letting him … hurt you back is one thing, but have you tried actually thinking about how he feels?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you need to put yourself in Derek's shoes."

"I do?" She frowns across the trailer, where Derek has left his worn-out canvas sneakers on a bristly mat. "But mine are so much prettier."

Savvy laughs. "You know what I mean. Try to imagine what it's like from his side. He's hurting too."

"I know." Addison glances outside the trailer – it's dark, and she can't see much, but she knows Derek had to move all the way out here because of what she did. She knows she hurt him. She knows she deserves to hurt too. And she knows he's going to keep hurting her back.

What good would it do to imagine being him?

"Will you try?"

"Sure, Sav. I'll try."

…

"So things are better."

"I didn't say they were better. I said they were okay."

"Don't try to lawyer me, Shepherd, you're not going to win."

Derek smiles in spite of himself, maneuvering the jeep down lightly slick roads while he talks to his old friend on his hands-free device. It's good to hear Weiss's voice, and it's good to be distracted on the drive. He knows Addison left for the trailer hours before he did – he saw her texts, but he was busy and … if he's honest … didn't really feel like answering.

But he's going to have to face her when he gets back to the trailer. He has to steel himself – she'll ask about the texts. She'll nag.

"Derek?"

"Things are okay, Weiss," he says slowly. "They're okay."

"Well … okay."

"More importantly, how are you and Savvy?"

"I disagree with your characterization, but we're doing well. Sav came through the second surgery great, and she's feeling pretty good. And we're looking into adoption."

"You are!" Derek raises his eyebrows at the good news even though he knows Weiss can't see him. "That's fantastic. I'm really happy for you."

"Thanks, man." Weiss pauses. "You know, I also kind of figured we'd have kids at the same time. You and Addie and the two of us, I mean."

"I know what you meant," Derek says, though he smiles a little at the thought of having children with Weiss. As long as they could skip the sex, a life of hanging out with Weiss, watching the Yankees and _not_ being cheated on doesn't sound like the worst thing in the world.

"I'm not trying to make you feel bad."

"I know." Derek slows down around a curve. "Look, things are – different now."

"But they're better?"

"Don't push it."

"And Addison's okay?"

"Addison?" Derek repeats her name, thinking of an answer. He hasn't actually given that much thought to the question. Whether _DerekAndAddison_ are okay, yes. (Well, the answer is no, but _yes_ he's considered the question.) But as for Addison, herself? "I, uh, I guess she's okay."

"You know what can really help …"

" _Not_ sleeping with your husband's best friend?"

"Yeah, that helps too," Weiss admits, "but what I was going to say is that you need to put yourself in her shoes."

"In her shoes? I don't think so. Do you have any idea how painful four-inch heels are?"

"No," Weiss says, "but why do _you_ know how painful they are?"

"I don't," Derek says hastily. "It was just an expression."

"Fine. I'm just saying, you have every right to be angry – and hurt – and pissed or whatever, Derek, but I think if you could put yourself in her shoes, imagine how she's feeling, things might actually make more sense."

Derek doesn't respond.

"You still there?"

"I'm here."

"And you'll try? Putting yourself in her shoes?"

"Sure, Weiss. I'll try."

…

Her call finished along with a second cocktail, Addison is sitting up in bed reading a medical journal and contemplating sleep when the trailer door opens.

"Hi," Derek says briefly.

"Hey." She smiles at him, but he doesn't seem to see. "How was your day?"

"Fine." He's shrugging out of his coat, setting down his bag. "Long," he adds.

She looks down at the open journal in her lap, feeling a little stung. She gets it. He doesn't want to talk to her.

"Okay, well, I guess I'm going to bed."

He doesn't respond for a few moments. "How was your day," he asks finally, a little grudgingly, without a real question mark at the end.

Like an obligation.

Like _she's_ an obligation.

"It was fine," she says. She could tell him about her case, but something compels her not to. Medicine has never been hard to talk about. Personal things, though …

"I, uh, I talked to Savvy tonight."

"Yeah?" Derek loosens his collar, starting to unbutton his shirt. "I talked to Weiss."

The symmetry makes her smile, briefly. It's reminiscent of so many conversations they've had.

"How's Weiss?"

"He's fine," Derek says shortly. "How's Savvy?"

"She's fine too." Addison flexes her fingers. "Do you, um, do you want a drink?"

He's already pouring one. He downs it before he turns around.

"How about another one?" she asks, keeping her tone light.

He's already pouring his second, though. He indicates the bottle, glancing toward her. Eleven years of marriage for _want one?_ Gestures will suffice.

"No, thanks."

He drinks his second shot in silence, staring out the opposite window. She forces herself to stay quiet – her nervous chatter that he used to find cute just annoys him lately – and she closes the journal, setting it on the nightstand.

She adjusts the pillows behind her, scooting over the line they've demarcated between their sides. They had sides in New York too, but they crossed them often, to cuddle or stretch or touch each other. Here, there might as well be a wall. And speaking of walls – she's stuck next to the trailer wall.

Her side sucks.

Derek doesn't pour a third drink, just undresses quickly, changes into pajama bottoms, brushes his teeth. She curls on her side, watching his evening routine. If this is the only time they can spend together, then fine.

He gets into bed without a word and gestures to her with his chin – waiting for her silent half-nod in return – before flicking out the light.

For a few long breaths they just lie there in silence. His back is to her, and she wishes she could place the flat of her hand on the plane of muscle facing her. Wishes he'd turn to her, kiss her goodnight. Even just acknowledge her at all.

"Derek …" She knows her voice sounds plaintive.

He rolls over with a sigh that makes it sound as if talking to her is the biggest chore around. "What is it?"

"…nothing," she says in a small voice. "I just wanted to say good night."

His face actually softens a little bit. "Good night, Addison."

He answered her. Which is … okay, and she clings to _okay_ as she drifts off to sleep.

…

She wakes to pre-dawn dark – it's those damn nature sounds out here in the middle of nowhere. You can't sleep through them; they're not white noise like cab horns or garbage trucks.

Without an alarm or a beeper, though, she can at least wake slowly. She's curled on her side on the other side of the bed. The better side, but when you screw your husband's best friend you lose the right to say _I'd prefer to have some exit possibility from the bed without climbing over you._

Why is she on the better side?

She tries to remember their conversation last night. She knows she had a couple of cocktails, and Derek a few scotches. She remembers thinking she hated her side of the bed. She must have told him, and he switched.

That was nice of him.

She's conscious of the warm weight of another body next to her; she doesn't bother turning over to see Derek – she has him memorized after all these years. She doesn't have to look to know that he'll be sleeping on his back, one arm thrown up over his head, like he has since medical school. Sure, a couple of years ago she might have looked anyway, kissed his peaceful jawline or run her fingers through his sleep-rumpled curls – but they're in Seattle now. And that means that his expression is bound to be less serene sleep and more disappointment in his life.

Well, in his _wife_ , anyway.

She knows she deserves it – but it still makes her sad.

She feels funny – maybe she didn't sleep well – heavier and clumsier, like she's grown overnight. It's not shocking, since Seattle feels like it's weighing her down.

It's dark in the trailer, the shades sturdy against the dawn, and she finds her way to the bathroom without turning on a light. The least she can do is not wake Derek up.

So she waits until she's closed the bathroom door behind her to turn on the light.

And then she screams.

And when the scream dies in her throat she just stares.

Frozen.

Confused.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she assures herself it's just a dream.

A very weird dream.

A dream she should tell a counselor.

Or maybe their couples' counselor.

Carefully, she peers through her fingers.

 _it's a dream it's a dream it's a dream it's a dream._

It has to be.

Because peering out of the mirror in the trailer's tiny bathroom the next time she peeks is … Derek.

She pinches herself – with Derek's fingers _this dream is so weird_ – and nothing happens. She draws a shaking breath. It's a trick, maybe, like the old Marx Brothers routine.

Cautiously, her heart pounding, she lifts her hand – _oh my god it's Derek's hand_ – to the mirror. A reflected hand rises in return, matching hers perfectly.

 _It's not a dream._

Then what the hell is it? She stares at Derek's face in the mirror, unwilling to believe it's actually a reflection. But then her hands rise, tracing the familiar stubble on his cheeks, his jaw, his nose with its adorable little bump, right into his hair.

 _His_ hair, not hers. Experimentally, she pulls on a handful of it.

Shit, that hurts.

Her eyes widen in fear – except they're not her eyes, they're Derek's.

But if it's not a dream, then maybe it's a … hallucination. What did she drink last night?

Her hands skim over her shoulders, down her arms – it's _Derek_ , she's _in his body_ , this is not real, it can't be real –

Okay, it definitely _feels_ real.

She closes her eyes, and then opens them again.

Derek's face.

 _Damn it._

His lips move when she curses.

How is this possible?

Three more times.

Still Derek.

Four more times.

Okay.

She draws one more deep breath. This is a hallucination, or a coma, or a – something – but if she's Derek, then where is she?

No, wait. This is too complicated.

If she's _in_ Derek's body, then where is _her_ body? And who is in it?

Very carefully, she leaves the bathroom and closes the door behind her, approaching the bed.

Slowly.

Worried about what she'll see.

What she sees, when she gets there, is … pretty worrisome.

She sees her own body, in a way she's never seen it before, the way another person would see it. She's stretched out on her back, one arm over her head, sleeping.

Amidst the shock of the dream-hallucination-whatever, she's admittedly fascinated by seeing herself from the outside. Carefully, she climbs up on the bed so she can see herself more closely. Okay, without makeup, the fine lines around her mouth and eyes are more obvious, and she's pretty sure the top of her arm used to be tighter, but all in all, not bad. Not bad at all, for a woman her age.

And really, the lines around her mouth are accentuated by the way Derek insists on sleeping –

 _Oh my god, Addison, focus!_

Sleeping like Derek.

Is he … inside her?

She takes a brief moment to snicker at the double entendre – apparently she's still human in this dream-hallucination-whatever.

And then, slowly and carefully, she leans over her own supine body, a little relieved that whatever this thing is didn't wake up when she was screaming.

Except now she has to wake … it … up.

 _How do I wake myself up?_

She only ponders this for a second, because her eyes – well, the eyes on her face – open.

They look up.

They see the eyes that are staring back at them.

And whoever is inside Addison's body lets out an eardrum-piercing shriek.

Panicked confusion follows – her own hand reaches out to grab her – well, to grab Derek's arm – and she bats it down with Derek's hand, which just makes him/her/it scream again, and then she screams, in lower register, with Derek's mouth.

"Okay, stop!" she cries finally, except it's Derek's voice. "Stop!"

She watches her own face go slack with confusion.

"…Derek?" she asks after a moment, hesitantly.

"Yes?"

The _yes_ came out of her own face.

In her own voice.

"It's me," she says, trying to adjust to hearing Derek's voice come out of her mouth. "Derek, it's me, and I have no idea what's happening, but I woke up this way and then I came out here to see what happened to me, or rather you, or actually to see if _you_ were in _me_ , or you know what I mean, so then I –"

"Addison," he says.

"Yeah." She smiles with relief. "It's me."

"That's clear. Your flipouts sound the same even in my voice."

And Derek's dry delivery sounds the same, somehow, in her voice, but she keeps that to herself.

"We switched bodies," she says. "You're in mine, and I'm in yours."

"I know what _switching_ means."

But she can't stop staring, fascinated by seeing her own face.

"Look, Addison, I'm sure this is high up in your vanity bucket list but if you could tell me what's going on, I'd appreciate it."

"I'd rather you didn't insult me with my own voice," she says coolly.

"Then could you stop staring at your own face?"

"Fine." She feels herself blushing a little – ooh, maybe it's hidden by "her" stubble, which would be a nice change. "Derek, I'm flattered that you think I know what's going on, but I'm as shocked as you are."

"Then how did you – " He stops talking, and she watches her own lips close as he does. "You found out first," he says.

"I woke up first. I always wake up first."

"That's not – there's nothing _always_ about what's going on here."

His hand extends – well, her hand, with her sparkling rings.

"Ouch, Derek, that hurt."

"Sorry. I was just … checking."

"Checking what, how sharp your fingernails are?"

"They're your fingernails, so that's hardly my fault."

"But I don't scratch you with them – I mean, not when you don't want me to."

She sees her own face wrinkle with displeasure.

"Now what's wrong?"

"In addition to everything else?" he asks. "Seeing _my_ face look all … reminiscent and raunchy isn't high on my list."

"Sorry." She forces her face – his face? – into neutral.

"Let me up," Derek says with Addison's voice.

"If you're going to look in the mirror, you should probably …"

But she doesn't need to warn him, because he trips getting out of bed and falls across her lap.

Which is … very, very weird.

He stumbles up, and she sees her own cheeks flush deeply. "How do you walk around on these things?"

"I'm barefoot. I mean, you're barefoot."

"I meant your legs." He stands, looking wobbly. "They're like stilts."

"Thank you, honey."

"It wasn't a compliment," he mutters, and then she gets a prime view of her own body half stalking, half limping, half swaggering to the bathroom.

(And yes, she knows that's three halves, but with Derek in her body and her in Derek's body, there are plenty of stranger things going on right now.)

She's not surprised when she hears a piercing shriek approximately four seconds later.

Her own face, when it pops out of the bathroom door, is chalk white.

"Addie … I'm _you_ ," he breathes with horror.

"At least you're pretty?" she offers.

"Excuse me, you're pretty too." He points to her. "Or you will be when you fix you hair, and don't forget to – _what_ the hell am I saying? Addison, this isn't actually happening, is it?"

"Um." She blinks, reaching to tuck her long hair behind her ears out of habit and coming up with two empty – and very masculine – fistfuls of air. "I think it might be."

"I think we're dreaming," Derek says resolutely in Addison's voice. He pinches himself – well, really herself – and then yelps.

"That won't work," Addison says sadly. "I tried."

"Well, maybe it's my dream, not yours."

"How could I wake up first in your dream?"

"I don't know, Addison, how could any of this be happening?"

That's the question.

For the next few breaths they just stare at each other, Addison taking in her own pained face, hair a little wild from sleep, silky nightgown hanging to her calves.

It all looks like her.

The stance, legs akimbo and arms stiff, doesn't, not really.

And then she looks down at Derek's white undershirt and flannel pajama pants.

It looks like him.

Except, admittedly, for his daintily crossed legs and arched wrists wresting on his knee.

"Derek," she says carefully, "I have no idea what's going on here, but I think what's important is that stay calm and take some time…"

At exactly that moment, both their pagers go off.

Derek picks up the nearest one – with Addison's hand. "911," he says grimly.

She looks at him in horror.

"So, uh." He passes her the other pager. "What were you saying about staying calm and taking some time?"

* * *

 _In case life isn't hard enough, start a story where you have to narrate people-as-other-people ... am I right? Let's see if switching bodies helps Addison and Derek try on each other's shoes ... and if taking those switched bodies into the real world helps even more. Not going to lie, I am amused by this storyline. And I promise it won't interfere with my other WIPs. So if you want me to continue, I am all over it. And I hope you'll review, because it's a grey rainy day and a little Addek love would be excellent. Thank you!_


	2. Cakewalk

**A/N: Some of you have requested an update on this story, and I think we could all use some fluff. I mean, if you can call waking up in someone else's body fluff. Last time we saw Our Body Switching Heroes, they had just received a 911 page from the hospital.**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

A _Very_ Freaky Friday, Chapter 2: _Cakewalk_

* * *

Two buzzing pagers.

Two surgeons.

That would be fine … if they were in the right bodies.

But they're not.

Addison, who is holding her own pager with Derek's hand, is seriously regretting thinking her life in Seattle was hard before.

Images of Derek, in her body, trying to treat a pregnant patient while she dons his loupes and splits open a skull ….

"We can't go in," she hisses. "We can't – treat each other's patients. We'll end up dragged in front of the medical board."

"The medical board?" He raises his – well, her – eyebrows. "We're violating the laws of physics right now, and you're worried about the medical board?"

"I'm not performing brain surgery!"

"Good," he says.

"And you're not – "

"Delivering babies?" He looks smug. And he has no right to look smug with _her_ face. "I delivered babies in medical school, Addison, I think I can handle it now."

"Okay, first of all, I do more than just deliver babies, and second of all, I can't believe you made me say _just deliver babies._ You are _such_ a surgical snob." She glares. "You know what? Let's go in to the hospital. I think you'll do great with a fetoscope."

He looks a little less confident.

"Don't worry, it's all image-guided. Just don't accidentally deliver the baby."

"Addison – " He shakes his head. "We need to report. We can figure out the rest later."

 _Figure out the rest later,_ Shepherd family motto.

And now they're stuck in a trailer.

And they're stuck inside each other.

And not in the fun way.

"Fine," Addison says, folding her arms – which is a strange sensation when it's Derek's chest instead of hers. "Let's get dressed."

At least that will be easy.

..

"Derek. Are you seriously still not dressed?"

She props her hands on her hips, leaning out of the bathroom. Okay, fine, she decided not to shave Derek's face, but that's because five-o'clock shadow is sexy, and not because she was afraid to use the razor. Besides, they're in a hurry. There's no time for primping.

"Don't come in here!" he calls.

Too late for that; the trailer is basically one room.

"Derek – "

"I mean it."

"Well, it's going to be hard to get to the hospital if I'm stuck in the bathroom."

There's a pause.

"Fine, you can come in, but you can't laugh."

She promises.

She leaves the bathroom.

And promptly bursts out laughing.

She can't help it. She's looking at her own body like a bug on its back, somehow tangled up in what looks like a pair of thong panties.

"It's not funny," he scowls.

"What happened?"

"I was just trying to put them on." He makes an attempt to detangle himself – well, herself. "They make no sense!"

She considers the way she's seen him get dressed.

"You can't just – jump into them, Derek, they're not boxers. You have to actually be careful – ugh, you ripped the lace."

"We have bigger problems than lace, Addison," he reminds her, with a surprising amount of dignity for someone who is currently getting untangled from a pair of panties by his wife.

"Just – here." She finally untangles them and, with some reluctance, tosses them in the trash. She roots around in the minimal space dedicated to her belongings and finds another pair.

"Oh, come on. Don't you have underwear that's not all – you know – " He waves a hand – her hand – to signify something. Presumably it's sign language for _thong._

"You've never complained about my underwear being 'all, you know' before," she reminds him. "And I don't want panty lines."

"Panty lines," he mutters, "she's worried about panty lines."

"Who are you talking to?"

"I don't know!" He hoists himself up on the bed, glaring at her. He holds out his hands.

"No," she says firmly. "You're not ripping another pair. These are La Perla."

"Am I supposed to know what that means?"

"You are if you're going to be in my body. Look, just let me – "

With a few token protests, he lets her help him slide her panties up her own legs – that he is currently operating.

They look at each other.

"So this is really …."

Addison stands up a little straighter. Derek's clothes were easy to put on, although the buttons on his shirt were on the wrong side.

"Also, why are you all dressed up?"

"Dressed up?" She looks down at her button-down shirt. "I'm not dressed up. I couldn't even find a tie."

"This is Seattle. I don't wear _ties_ to work."

"Derek," she says, propping a hand on her hip. "You're currently wearing nothing but a thong. Do you really want to take a high horse on your Seattle wardrobe?"

He blushes – on _her_ cheeks, and she hopes she doesn't look that obvious when she's the one inside her own face.

"Your clothes are too complicated," he scowls as she pulls more pieces from what passes for her wardrobe here.

"Does this mean you're going to stop asking me why it takes me so long to get ready in the morning?"

He doesn't answer, he's busy staring at the skirt she's handed him like he's trying to figure out how to split the atom.

"Where's the zipper?" he asks finally, having given up.

"Here," she says, pulling aside what seems to be a hidden placket.

Oh, of course.

Hidden.

He should have assumed. It makes _so_ much sense.

"Derek," Addison says finally, after watching her own body lying on her back on the bed and wriggling her hips, attempting to slide the skirt up her legs, "is that really how you think I get dressed?"

He's glowering at her with her own face.

"That's not fair," he says, "my clothes are easier." He's a little breathless from essentially doing The Worm to get into his skirt.

Her skirt.

Whatever.

"Ugh, fine." She helps him slide the skirt over his hips and zips it up.

"It's too tight," he protests.

"Excuse me." She frowns. "It fits perfectly."

"I can barely breathe!" He turns his – her body around and stares at the back of the skirt.

"Try breathing through your front instead," she suggests drily.

He opens his – well, her – mouth, and seems to think better of it, closing it again.

Or maybe he's just realized he needs to put on her bra.

She helps him with that too. "You know, Derek, for someone who's taken all of these things off me a fair number of times, you're pretty terrible at putting them on."

"Taking them _off_ you was fun," he mutters. "This … is not fun."

She takes pity on him and finds a simple blouse, although he manages to wrinkle it pulling it over his head like he's trying to put out a fire.

And then there are the shoes.

And that's another matter entirely.

..

"Why not?" Derek asks, attempting to rub his hand through his hair with frustration and getting it tangled in her long red strands.

"Because you're not," Addison snaps.

"But why not?"

"Because you can't wear sneakers with a pencil skirt, come _on_ , Derek!"

"I can't wear stilts, either! You want me to fall on my face?"

Ooh, if only he had asked that question while he still had his _own_ face.

"No," she grumbles, since he's currently in possession of her face, thank you very much. "Ugh, _fine_. Two inches, and that's my final offer."

She ends up sliding the pumps onto his/her feet herself, and then watching with arms folded while Derek staggers around the trailer like a drunk penguin.

"Were you always this clumsy?" she asks as he stumbles and grabs the refrigerator for support.

"Were you always this vain?" he counters.

They glare at each other.

"I don't have anything lower than two inches," she says. "Flats make my legs look stumpy."

"How could anything make your legs look stumpy?"

She pauses. "Did you just compliment me?"

"No," he says quickly. "Look, let's just – go. I'll make do." And he clomp-staggers his way to the door, only stopping when she calls his name.

"Now what?"

"Derek, are you going to brush – _my_ – hair or just show up at the hospital with a rat's nest?"

He runs a hand along the back of his head, along _her_ hair, and winces.

"You're going to complain about having to brush my hair?" she asks. "Really? With all the time you spend on your own hair?"

"Speaking of _my own hair_ ," he says with dignity, "you used too much product."

She opens her mouth (well, his mouth) and then closes it again. Too much to say, too little time. "You look fine," she mutters instead, glancing quickly at her – well, his – face in the mirror.

A few brush strokes take care of the tangles, but she puts up a hand – his hand – to stop him from heading for the door.

"Now what?"

"Makeup, Derek. You need makeup."

They both pause while they absorb that sentence.

..

"Ouch!"

"Would you stop moving?"

"I'll stop moving if you stop poking me."

"I'm only poking you _because_ you're moving."

"I told you I could do it myself," he mutters.

"No. Your fingers are too clumsy."

"Excuse me, I'm a neurosurgeon."

"You're also a man."

"Not today, I'm not," he says grimly. He flinches, hard, when she leans in with the eyebrow pencil. "Stop poking me in the eye!"

"I wouldn't poke you in the eye if you would just hold still."

"Why would I hold still when you're about to poke me in the eye?"

She rests a hand on his forehead (that's actually hers), trying to hold her own face still enough to apply –

"Ow!"

"Stop moving!"

"Stop poking!"

" _Derek._ " She props a hand – his hand – on her hip (his hip). "Hold still!"

"Is this really what you do every morning?" he demands.

She considers the question. She's cornered him by the open bathroom door, trying to get the right angle to apply eyeliner while he fends her off with her own hands.

"It's a little different when I'm in my own body, if that's what you're asking. So just hold still."

"Just leave it," he grumbles, twisting to look in the mirror. "You look fine. I mean, I look fine."

"You really don't."

"Thanks," he says sarcastically. "I'm sure poking me in the eye a few more times will really improve things."

"Derek! You're not going to work without makeup."

"Why not?"

"Because you need it!"

"I look fine without makeup," he insists.

"No, you don't. Maybe you looked fine without makeup ten years ago, but you don't look fine without makeup now."

Derek is peering at his – well, her – face in the mirror.

"Fine," he says, "then let me do it myself."

"We discussed that. It's harder than it looks."

"I'm a neurosurgeon," he repeats. "I'm pretty sure eye shadow isn't too complicated for me."

"That's eyeliner," she murmurs as he swipes a thick grey line across one of her eyelids.

They wrestle a little for the tube of lipstick – it's disconcerting, but a little amusing, to hear her own laugh coming from his lips and his from hers.

It's less funny when he slashes red around the perimeter of her mouth.

"Derek, do you mind?"

"What?"

"For one, it's not 1992."

"So?"

"So cool it with the lipstick."

"You always wear lipstick."

"Not like that I don't." She frowns, scanning his-face-that's-really-hers. "And not _swiping_ it on like that. I look slutty."

"No comment," he mutters in her own voice, and she swats him in response.

"Ow!"

"Oh, come _on_." She frowns at his overdramatic yelp, then looks down at her – well, his – hands, flexing them with interest. "Sorry," she says after a moment, "I guess I have to get used to your upper body strength – oh come _on_ , Derek, stop fluffing your feathers. It's just a biological fact."

He glares at her. And then he stump-clomps his way to the door. "Can we leave now? Or should we just wait for all the patients to die while you give me a makeover?"

Actually, she was giving it to herself, he was just in her body, but – technicalities.

"We can leave," she says with dignity.

Actually, she's proud of them. They managed to dress, and even though Derek's version of her looks a bit disheveled and, well, maybe a little slutty – they did it. They pulled it off.

"Good." He pulls open the door, then turns to her. "You realize we've only just managed to get out the door – but at some point we're actually going to have to get to the hospital and see everyone?"

Oh, right.

More technicalities.

..

They're halfway to the car – she finds it easy to walk fast in Derek's low shoes.

"Addison," he calls in her voice, and she turns around.

He clumps over. "I'll stop _fluffing my feathers_ ," he says, repeating her words from earlier, "if you'll stop swinging _my_ hips."

"I'm not swinging your hips!"

"You are definitely swinging my hips." Derek points toward the hips in question. "Walk," he says, and she takes a few steps obligingly.

"Swinging!" he says triumphantly. "That's _not_ how I walk."

"Then give me back my body," she snaps.

"You give me back mine first."

They glare at each other for a moment.

"Fine, I'll try not to swing," she mutters. "And if you could stop – _clumping_ _around_ , I would appreciate that too."

"I told you I should wear sneakers."

She's too annoyed to admit he might have been right, so she just watches him clump toward the car.

Clump.

Clump.

"Hey!" she calls. "Give me the keys."

"What?" he turns around. "Why?"

"Because I'm driving."

You're driving?" Derek asks dubiously, except it's her voice from her face.

She gets it.

Derek always drives.

Except – now she's Derek.

" _You're_ driving," Addison corrects him, and holds out her-palm-that's-actually-his. "You're the one who acts like it's a federal offense to move the seat," she reminds him.

He looks torn.

"Fine." He clumps over to the passenger side. "You're me, you drive; I'm you, so I'll backseat drive."

"Very amusing."

"I wasn't trying to – Jesus, Addison, _peel out_ is just an expression!"

"I'm getting used to the car," she says, adjusting her body in the seat. It's such a strange sensation, taking up more room and everything a little bit … _off._ "Maybe if you let me drive it."

"Maybe if you weren't an abysmal driver."

"I'm a good driver."

"That's what every bad driver says – would you _please_ slow down?"

"I'm going the speed limit!"

"The speed limit in Montana, maybe," he mutters. "How is it that you have my feet, but _your_ lead foot?"

She doesn't dignify it with an answer, but as she passes a tractor-trailer and sees her own horrified expression illuminated by the headlights, she does make an effort to slow down.

Even if it feels like that means they'll never get to the hospital.

..

It takes her two tries to park, Derek looking nervously over his shoulder the whole time. He would never take two tries to park. She's going to give them away!

Well. People probably won't _immediately_ suspect they've switched bodies, since that's physically impossible.

But they might think he's drunk.

"Cut the wheel," he mutters. "Cut the – Addison, are you serious?"

"It's boxy," she says defensively. "And there's no trunk. You know I hate jeeps."

"Why do you think I bought this one?"

She glares, but eventually maneuvers the jeep into the space.

" _Addison_ ," he hisses, as he observes what can only be called a _dainty_ hop down from the jeep, "would you _please_ remember that you are a man?"

She cocks her head. Well, his head. "That sounds very strange."

"What part of this is _not_ strange?" he demands.

"Fair," she says, and to her credit, her minimal credit, she does seem to be swinging her hips a little less.

… she saunters through the automatic doors first, though.

..

"Oh, you two decided to join us?"

"We're sorry, Miranda," Addison says quickly, glancing at Derek for confirmation and seeing her own face.

"Miranda." Dr. Bailey raises her eyebrows. "You're calling me Miranda now?"

 _Right. She thinks she's talking to Derek._

"Um, just because I'm … so sorry," Addison says, her voice trailing off as Derek elbows her in the ribs with her own rather sharp elbow.

"Fine." Bailey nods. "But don't expect me to call you Derek. _I'm_ not sorry."

"Of course you're not," Addison says. "So, um, there was a four-car pileup?"

"Probably speeding," Derek mutters and she elbows him in return.

"Catch us up," Addison suggests.

"Catch you up," Bailey repeats. "Did you notice it was a 911 page, not an invitation for tea? It's been two hours!"

Addison and Derek exchange a glance.

"Does that mean, um, that the patients you wanted us to – "

"They're stabilized. They were kind of in a hurry – that's why they call it an emergency." Bailey frowns. "Next time we'll skip triage and tell them we have to wait for the Shepherds."

"Well, that's good. Which room for the pregnant woman?" Addison asks. Derek elbows her (with her own elbow). "I mean, for … Addison," she corrects with dignity.

"416," Bailey says. "Did you want the neuro patient as well, or are you two on double duty this morning?"

"Is the neuro patient stable?" Addison asks weakly.

"Yes."

"Then I, um, I think I'm going to go with – with Addison."

"Can I ask why?"

"Togetherness," Derek blurts. A hank of long hair falls in his face and Addison winces. If only he could actually master tucking it behind his ears. She reminds herself to make him a ponytail later.

"Togetherness," Bailey repeats doubtfully.

"Right." Addison nods encouragingly. "We're, um, we're trying to appreciate each other's work. Spend more time together. Professionally."

"I thought you had the professional part down," Bailey says. She doesn't leaves unsaid the obvious second part of the sentence: _it's the rest of it you two can't seem to handle._

"Oh, well, the marriage counselor thought it would be helpful." Addison smiles weakly. "We're trying," she says.

"We're trying," Derek echoes.

"Okay, then." Bailey looks a little confused still, but she waves them toward the elevators. "Go ahead and _try_ to treat your patient."

..

"Dr. Bailey." Izzie Stevens jogs up, a little breathless. "Mrs. Carter is stable. Can I work with Dr. Patel on – " She stops talking. "Is something wrong?"

"Stevens. You worked with the Shepherds," Bailey says. "The two of them. Together."

"Yeah." Izzie laughs a little, uncomfortably. "If you can call it that."

"Mm."

"Why do you ask?"

"No reason," Bailey says. "And yes, you can work with Dr. Patel. Try not to make me look bad, Stevens," she calls after her intern.

And then she sidles past room 416 one more time.

She's not _snooping_ , just observing. She was running the triage team, and she's just following up on her pregnant patient.

Inside the room, she can see Derek is leaning over the pregnant patient, one hand propped on his hip, the other gesturing vividly as he speaks. Bailey watches as he tosses his head a little, only for Addison to elbow him in the ribs. For her part, Addison is standing next to him, legs akimbo, the hand not elbowing her husband shoved in the pockets of her lab coat.

Togetherness.

 _Togetherness_.

Dr. Bailey has been at Seattle Grace longer than either of the Shepherds. Longer than both of the Shepherds combined, come to think of it. Nothing fazes her.

So the Shepherds' marriage counselor told them they need to spend time together.

Great.

Good.

They're professionals.

Of course they won't let it affect their work.

"Dr. Bailey?"

"O'Malley." She turns around.

"What's going on in there?" O'Malley asks with interest, attempting to peer around her.

"Nothing's _going on in there_. Would you just – O'Malley!" she snaps. "What are you doing?"

"The Shepherds are in there together," he whispers.

"I know they're – would you _stop_?" She waves her chart at him until he backs off. "This is a hospital, not a high school. Do you have patients?"

"Yes," he admits.

"Do you have another job?"

"No."

"Then go do your job!"

He makes tracks down the hall while Bailey peers into 416 once more.

So the Shepherds are acting a little strange.

That's nothing new.

She heads off in search of a mocha latte to power her through the rest of the morning, pondering how much quieter this place used to be before Derek Shepherd blew into town and then Addison Shepherd joined him.

..

"Is she gone?"

"She's gone."

Addison breathes a sigh of relief, glancing at their sleeping patient before turning back to Derek. "Bailey's good, Der – Addison," she corrects hastily. They've agreed to try to use each other's names, but the whole thing is making her feel dizzy. "She's really good."

"She's good … but she's not crazy," Derek says grimly. "And you'd have to be crazy to believe us."

"She's suspicious."

"So we act normal."

"It might be a little late for that."

"We act normal," Derek repeats, "until we – what are you doing?"

"I'm pushing my hair behind your ear," she says, "because you can't seem to get the hang of it."

"Yes, well." He shoves some hair away from his – her, face. It falls back down again. "How do you work like this? Don't you have one of those – rubber band things?"

"Yes. I have a _rubber band thing_ in my office. I can make you a ponytail. With my hair," she can't help adding.

"Good." He nods. "What was I saying?"

"That we should act normal."

"Right."

Her blackberry buzzes – two short ones, just a calendar reminder.

"Derek?"

"You're not supposed to call me that."

"Sorry." She shows him her blackberry. "It's just, whoever you are, you should probably know that Bailey's going to seem like a cakewalk compared to this."

There on the screen, in clear letters, easy to read:

REMINDER: MARRIAGE COUNSELOR, 11 a.m.

* * *

 _ **They can't skip counseling. That would be unseemly! Get ready for chapter 3 (and let's hope the counselor is ready too). Enjoying this story? Please review and let me know!**_


	3. Communication is the Heart of Marriage

_**A/N: I think this is the first time I'm actually posting this story on a Friday, but it felt right. And it was fun to write. I hope it's fun to read, too.**_

* * *

A _Very_ Freaky Friday, Chapter 3: _Communication is the Heart of Marriage_

* * *

Jerome Saltzman should have become a doctor.

His mother still says this every time he visits, with the same silly platitudes. _All that time in school, you could have gone to medical school instead. Opened a nice practice._

He has a Ph.D, of course. From Stanford. Not that that's enough for his mother.

 _Can you help on a plane when a patient has a heart attack?_

Fine.

He can't.

He's still a doctor, though, and that's what his patients call him.

Dr. Saltzman.

Even if they're doctors themselves, medical doctors, like –

Oh.

He looks again at his calendar, hoping he's misread it.

Not that he ever _dreads_ patients. He's a professional. He's here to help.

It's just that three times a week is a lot for any couple.

But especially this one.

..

"So you're really driving again."

"Unless you've figured out how to give me back my body."

"If I had, I'd hardly still be walking around it." Derek grimaces. "My calves hurt and my … _bra_ straps keep falling down."

He says this last part in a whisper.

"Toughen up," she says. "Stand up straight and stop slumping and the straps will be fine. I didn't exactly enjoy using the men's room next to Preston Burke, either. Although …"

"Don't finish that sentence," he warns. "And keep _my_ eyes on your own urinal in the future, please."

"Gladly." She tosses her hair.

It doesn't work, because it's _his_ hair.

It does make him look ridiculous, as if he's being chased by bees.

"Addison," he hisses.

"Don't call me that."

"Fine, _Derek._ " His own name from his own mouth, except it's her mouth, and he's starting to get very, very tired. "Just stop with all the girly – stuff already."

"What girly stuff?" She frowns at him, except it's more like a pout. Her hand is propped on her hip, and she's tapping her foot impatiently.

It would be a familiar pose from her, except it's from _him_ , and he looks … ridiculous.

"Just – keep your hands down. And how many times do I have to tell you to stop sashaying?"

"Yes, I did buy the sachets for my mother," Addison announces loudly in his voice.

He turns around to see why – and nearly loses his footing.

Addison grabs his arm, except it's her arm, and he just decides pronouns should all be banned and lets himself be hauled back upright by his own hand.

But now he knows why she said that: Dr. Bailey is approaching them. And she was trying to cover their tracks.

Sachets, indeed.

"Addison." Bailey gives him a curious look, seeing Addison's face. "Something wrong with your shoes?"

"The heel is broken," Addison says quickly, and Bailey turns to her, seeing Derek this time.

"Oh." Bailey looks from one of them to the other. "So you're still on the … togetherness kick?"

"Yes. Actually, we're on our way to therapy right now," Addison says.

"Oh, good." Bailey mutters the next part half under her breath: "Not like you're both department heads. No problem with your sailing in two hours after an emergency page and then sauntering out again."

Sauntering … is actually not a bad term for what they're doing, as she watches them leave.

Addison, who is usually the picture of grace, is taking the long but teetering steps of a baby foal. She stumbles twice more on her high heels before they're halfway down the path. Derek catches her each time, not looking particularly thrilled about it. He actually looks … huffy, and tosses his head more than once like an angry horse.

She watches as they both stand up straight, and then Derek tucks his hand into the crook of Addison's arm … _okay, then_ … and with mincing steps, they make their way down the rest of the path.

Bailey shakes her head a bit, as if to clear it.

She needs more sleep.

She needs caffeine, sleep, and possibly a different job … but she has this one now, and unlike _some_ people, she answers her pages immediately – so there's no more time to think about the Shepherds.

..

"We're going to be late."

" _You're_ the one who insisted I make a ponytail for you before we leave."

"I did not _insist_ that you make a ponytail for me," Derek says with dignity. "And it was your hair that kept falling in my face."

"Well, it was _your_ clumsy hands that kept screwing up the ponytail."

"Clumsy hands." He shakes his head. (Well, her head, and it makes the much-maligned ponytail swing back and forth ridiculously.) "Did you forget I'm a brain surgeon?"

"No, and if I did, I'm sure you'd remind me fifty times an hour as usual."

"Of course I would." He smirks at her – it's pretty easy, using her mouth. "Communication is the _heart of marriage_ , didn't you know?"

"Oh, please, Derek, tell me more about marriage. You're the expert."

"Don't call me Derek!"

The absurdity of saying _don't call me to Derek_ to … well, to Derek … is too much. Glaring, he starts to stomp to the closed door of Saltzman's office suite.

She watches him, ponytail jerking back and forth, but doesn't help.

Oh … _damn._

"Are you okay?" she hisses, squatting next to him. "Did you twist your ankle?"

He pulls off one of the heels and tosses it onto the carpet. "I'm throwing these out."

"Don't you dare, they're limited edition."

"They're weapons of mass destruction is what they are." He grabs the other one but she gets there faster.

"Fine, we can … buy some flats. After we see the therapist. But can you just try to avoid killing yourself before then?"

"I don't know if I can!" He sits half up, that annoying ponytail swinging around behind him. "You're certainly having a good time," he says acidly.

"Excuse me?"

"It's easy for you! Comfortable shoes, regular clothes you can move in, no ponytails to worry about and no sprained ankles."

"Okay, first of all, you made me mousse your hair three times this morning."

"It's not mousse."

"Three times," she repeats, pointing at the offending curls. "And I'm not that crazy about your clothes, to be honest. Ooh." She sits back on her heels. "You know what? Shopping isn't such a bad idea. You can get flats, and I can dress you in some appropriate clothes."

"Appropriate clothes?" he asks, alarmed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing," she says airily, which sounds a bit odd in his voice. "Nothing, don't worry. Flannel, fishing hats, you know how it is."

"Addison," he warns, even as she glares when he uses her name. "That's not funny."

"Ma'am, are you all right?" An anxious voice intercedes, and they're not alone anymore. A nervous-looking middle-aged woman is standing over them.

"I'm fine," Addison says automatically.

In Derek's voice.

Oops.

She realizes what the woman is seeing: a man crouched on the carpet above a woman who's clearly fallen down, clutching her ankle like the drama queen Derek's apparently been all along.

"I mean, she's fine," Addison says quickly, pointing to her own supine body.

Derek, still sprawled on the floor in said supine body, smiles weakly at the concerned woman. "Fine," he echoes.

"You fell down?" she asks, a little suspiciously.

"Tripped on my shoes," Derek says. "My ridiculous shoes," he adds.

"Oh." The woman looks at the one remaining shoe on his foot. "Well, they're fabulous shoes, at least."

"Yes, they are," Derek announces in her voice. "And I pride myself on my appearance. Turning heads is far more important than twisting an ankle."

"I've never complain about her heels before," Addison cuts in, "since they obviously look great on her, but now, all of a sudden, it's a problem."

Derek glares. "Well, I – "

"Oh, you must be Dr. Saltzman's patients," the woman interrupts, her tone kind and knowing. "I'm filling in for his assistant today. You can head in now; he's expecting you."

They both smile as convincingly as they can when they're still essentially wrestling over a shoe.

As soon as the receptionist is out of view, Addison snatches the shoe. "Put this on. You look ridiculous in one shoe."

"I look ridiculous in two."

"Well, I'm not going to argue with that. Ugh, _Derek._ "

"Now what?"

"There's a run in my stockings!"

He attempts to twist around to follow her pointing finger, and almost loses his balance again.

"Are you drunk?" she snaps.

"I wish." Annoyed, he grabs the shoe from her hand. "I'm buying shoes as soon as we get out of here."

He pauses, not sure he's ever uttered those words before.

There's a twinkle in his own eyes; apparently Addison is amused too.

"Watch it," he says, "or I'm buying …" he thinks for a moment. "Birkenstocks!" he says triumphantly.

"Birkenstocks are a timeless classic," she says primly. "I'll just save them for the next time you drag me to Maine to relive your misspent youth."

"My youth was not misspent, first of all, and – fine, crocs," he says, willing her to have an answer for that.

"I'll wear them in the OR."

"You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"Oh, you've finally noticed – maybe the couples' therapy is actually paying off."

"You know what, Addison – "

"Addison! Derek!" The cheerful, booming voice of their therapist interrupts their argument. He's holding open his office door. "I thought I heard your dulcet tones out here. Would you like to come in?"

He gestures toward his now open office, not leaving them much choice.

..

Yes, Jerome Saltzman should have become a doctor.

He's fairly certain doctors don't have to break up brawling patients who can't even make it inside the door to his office before they start bickering.

Today's not the first time, of course.

But the Shepherds are – well, they certainly stand out among his patients.

And they're in rare form today, apparently. Addison, surprisingly, looks like she's been through the ringer, with a run in her stocking, wrinkles in her clothes, wearing only one shoe and holding the other. Derek, on the other hand, is puffed up and glaring at her, one hand on his hip, head cocked.

And they're sitting in the opposite seats they normally do.

 _Fascinating_ , what you can observe about couples.

(He's very good at this, you know. He's a natural.)

Every other time, Derek has taken the chair on his left, Addison the one on his right.

And they've been here many times.

And it feels like they've been here many more times than that.

At least judging by the number of antacids he tends to swallow after their sessions.

Today, though, today they've taken the opposite seats.

He observes their body language, as he's trained to do. Trained – and well compensated, too.

Today, Addison is slumped in her chair, gripping both armrests and staring straight ahead.

Derek, on the other hand, is sitting straight up, legs crossed neatly, body angled toward Addison's.

"Well." He smiles at both of them. "Perhaps we can start by reviewing your day so far. How has it been?"

"Oh, you know." Derek gestures with both hands. "Just … normal. Nothing out of the ordinary."

..

If only they could have left it there. But no, now they have to move on to talking about _marriage._

(Fine, they're paying this guy to talk to them about marriage, but that's not the point.)

"You're living together again. That's a big step, so it's important that we keep checking in."

Neither of them says anything.

"Why don't we discuss how living together again is making you feel, today. Let's start with you, Addison."

She opens her mouth, remembers that they're in an insane acid nightmare, and closes it again. Next to her, Derek glares with _her_ eyes, which is rude.

But very effective; she'll have to remember that.

"Living together feels fine," Derek says stiffly, in her voice. She nudges him with her foot to try to get him to cross his – well, her – legs. Sitting there all akimbo with a run in his stockings, _honestly._ Her mother would have a fit.

"Perhaps you can say a little more than that," the therapist encourages.

"Yes, _Addison_ , perhaps you can say a little more than that." She leans back in her chair, admittedly enjoying his discomfort, even if it's strange to see it playing out on her own face.

"A little more." Derek is glaring at her again. "Well." He leans forward, which makes him even _more_ akimbo.

 _Oh god, the thong might have been a terrible idea._

She's considering kicking his ankle again to get him to sit up when he starts talking.

"Living together is great," he says, avoiding her gaze and staring directly at the therapist with her own face. "I've moved in about fifty suitcases to make sure there's no room for … Derek's … things. You could say I've succeeded in taking over the space."

Addison glares at him now, hoping it's as effective with _his_ face. The nerve!

"Taking over the space," the therapist says thoughtfully. "Now, last time we discussed compromise – "

"I don't like compromise," Addison blurts, in Derek's voice. "I prefer sulking, and muttering things under my breath."

"Oh, that's rich, from the queen of – "

" _As_ I was saying," Addison interrupts, "even though the plan was for … her to move her things in, I only gave her one drawer."

"That's not true. I gave – _you_ gave me more than that. I'm sorry _you_ don't have a walk in closet for the five hundred pieces of clothing I just _had_ to bring with me to Seattle."

"One drawer," Addison repeats. "And I glare at her whenever she opens a cabinet or moves anything around."

"Because you're always moving things around!" Derek throws a hand up in frustration.

The therapist looks confused.

"I mean, I'm always moving things around," Derek corrects himself. He notices Addison glaring at his legs, and finally nudging his foot with hers – well, hers with _his_ , but who's counting.

She leans in close. "Sit _up_ , Sharon Stone," she hisses, and he can feel a blush creeping over her cheeks.

Hastily, he pulls himself higher in the chair. "As I was saying, _I_ always move things around. I like things in a particular way, even if it's someone else's space."

"And I pretend to like things any old way, and then get mad if someone moves things around."

"It's _your_ home," Derek says.

"It's not a home, it's a trailer. It's a midlife crisis on wheels."

"Do you hear how she – I mean he – " Derek seems to be running out of steam.

"Addison," the therapist says gently. "Why don't you try addressing Derek directly. Tell him what you need from your shared home."

She coughs at the word _home._

And of course Derek gets to talk, in her voice.

"Turn and look at her," the therapist directly. "Speak directly to her. Communication is the heart of marriage."

Reluctantly, Derek turns to face Addison.

Except he's facing Derek.

A headache thumps his temples.

Is that – worry, in her eyes that are actually his eyes?

Nope, he looks again.

Not at all.

"I need to be in control of everything," he says after a moment, enjoying the expression on her face – well, his face, now. "I need at least five bedrooms, and barring that I need every inch of space for my things. I don't care about … his fishing rods."

"That last part is actually true," Addison says quietly enough for the therapist to miss it.

"All right," the therapist says, looking a little confused. "Derek, do you want to respond?"

"Oh, I would _love_ to." She recrosses her legs and props her chin – well, his chin – in her hand. "See, I'm actually the one who needs to be in control, I just pretend I don't. I came to Seattle to live out in the woods, wear flannel shirts, and pretend the last fifteen years never happened."

"Here I thought you came to Seattle because I slept with your best friend."

"Addison," the therapist intercedes gently. "We've talked about your guilt over the affair interfering in your marital progress."

"Guilt?" Derek's eyes – well, her eyes – widen. "I should feel guilty, shouldn't I? Or is adultery not a sin anymore?"

"Because you're so religious," Addison hisses. "And anyway, I had an affair too," she announces loud enough for the therapist to hear, in Derek's voice. "With a girl I picked up in a bar. I probably didn't even use protection."

"Of course you used protection," he snaps. "Not that it's any of your business. I mean, my business."

Dr. Saltzman's gaze is swinging back from one of them to the other. "Since you brought up … intimacy, perhaps we can move on to that subject."

Oh, _great._

"I understand that part of your relationship has resumed," Saltzman continues.

"In a manner of speaking," Addison says grumpily, in Derek's voice.

"Oh, really?" Derek snaps back. "I didn't hear you complaining."

"You never hear me complaining."

"How is that possible, when you never do anything but complain?"

"Addison. Derek." Saltzman shakes his head, his eyes kind. "Resuming physical marital intimacy can bring up all sorts of issues when a marriage is recovering from infidelity. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

Addison recrosses her legs, reaching to tuck her hair behind her ears.

Her hands come up empty. _Damn it_ , old habits are hard to break.

… not that she can really blame herself for adjusting imperfectly to this utterly insane situation, but still.

"Derek, did you have something to say?" The therapist nods encouraging at her.

"No." She glances at Derek, who's scowling. "Just, I guess I should thank … her for being willing to, how did you put it, _resume physical marital intimacy_ on the same bed where I used to screw my mistress."

"Excuse me." He sits up straight now, anger all over her features. "I'm the one who wanted to have sex again," he announces for the therapist's benefit, in her voice. "I insisted on it. Pressured him into it. On the ferry."

"Pressured!" She flings her arms out, frustrated. "Hardly. Or maybe I've just forgotten what it's like to sleep with someone who's not a one-night stand."

Derek looks like he wouldn't mind strangling her. "I can't seem to give him any time or space to recover," he says loudly, in her voice. "I expect him to jump back into bed with me despite _walking in_ on me screwing his best friend."

"Well, I didn't waste any time driving across the country to screw the first girl I met in a bar!"

They're both silent now, breathing heavily. Addison swipes Derek's hair out of her eyes – some of which actually works – and Derek slumps over in his chair again, veering alarmingly close to _Basic Instinct_ again.

She doesn't bother to kick him this time.

Saltzman's voice is calm and soothing. "Now, it's perfectly natural to have feelings of guilt, and confusion, surrounding your marriage. It's normal for living together again to bring up your feelings about your extramarital relationships."

"Mine wasn't a relationship," Derek pipes up, tossing her ponytail – he's getting pretty good at that, actually. "It was a one-night stand. With a manwhore. But I guess it was worth throwing away my marriage."

"You didn't throw away your marriage." Addison's voice shakes a little. That's all she needs, is to cry with Derek's tear ducts. Damn it. "We're here working on it, _Addison_ , because we're _not_ throwing it away."

"That's right, Derek." The counselor looks pleased. "Addison, Derek has expressed his commitment to the marriage. Do you have anything to say in response?"

"Nothing I can repeat," Derek mutters in her voice.

Addison throws her head back. This is ridiculous. This is absurd.

"Addison," the therapist says, directing his gaze away from her and onto … the person he thinks is her. "Derek has made a statement that could leave him feeling vulnerable."

 _No shit_.

"We're almost out of time," Saltzman continues, "unfortunately." He pauses. "But I'd like you to try to respond to Derek before our time is up."

Derek is still glaring, using her eyes, which is totally unfair. " _Fine_ , we're working on our marriage," he mutters in her voice. "Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," she snaps, "can't you tell?"

The buzzer sounds.

"Oh no, we're out of time." Saltzman smiles, looking – well, not relieved, that would be unprofessional. "I'll see you the day after tomorrow. Until then, remember to be patient with each other!"

Addison stares straight ahead as she reaches for her purse – damn it, Derek is reaching for it too, with her hand. She stands up empty-handed – _god_ , it's strange not to carry a purse, and Derek sucks at carrying her purse, too.

It keeps sliding down his – well, her – arm.

She reaches out to help him by shoving it back up, only for him to stumble again.

Saltzman is all but closing the door on their heels, so they make their slow way to the elevator before they speak again.

"Um." Addison glances at Derek. He's not doing the best job inside her body, she'd have to say. He looks disheveled and annoyed, his ponytail is coming undone – too much tossing it with too little practice, she supposes – and he's still limping in just one shoe.

He looks back at her.

The elevator door opens and they face a cold marble lobby. Outside, concrete.

And Derek, in _her_ stockinged feet.

"So, um, should we go shopping?" she asks in a small voice.

His small voice.

"I can't believe I'm saying this," he mutters (in her voice), "after eleven years, but … yes. Let's go shopping."

* * *

 _ **I mean, no body-switching story is complete without a shopping montage. What did you think of therapy? I hope you'll review, because reviews are the HEART of getting me to post faster. :)**_


	4. Retail Therapy

**A/N: I'm so sorry this took so long! But it's humming now, so I hope you enjoy this next chapter of body-switching, Addek-feeling madness. I'm a day early for Freaky Friday, so I guess it's Freaky Thursday today (which leaves time for Frisky Friday, just sayin'.) Thank you for your reviews on the last chapter, thank you for reading and indulging the freakiest story I've written yet, and happy Thursday!**

* * *

A _Very_ Freaky Friday, Chapter 4: _Retail Therapy_

* * *

Addison Shepherd has been surprised by her reflection before.

There was the first morning she woke up after her braces came off, and she was stunned by the white non-metal teeth staring back at her from her vanity mirror. There was the summer she spent at horse camp – which should really have a name that makes it seem less like _she_ was the horse – without any mirrors to speak of and filthy pretty much all the time and by the time she'd bathed and looked in a mirror she realized she'd grown three inches.

And then there was the day she'd rather not think about, when she decided that bleaching her hair blonde would help her get over her husband leaving her.

(Spoiler alert: it didn't. And she really can't carry off blonde.)

Today, though. Today is different.

 _Different_ is putting it mildly; today is – let's be real – freaky.

It's very, very freaky.

Because staring back from the very flattering lighting in the three-way mirror, with tiny soft bulbs flattering whoever stands on the elevated podium … is Derek.

Which isn't news. Inasmuch as waking up in your husband's body can ever be Old News, it's old news. It's not the first mirror she's looked in since she woke up.

But it's the first one with the kind of luxury lighting that highlights everything, and while it's flattering, it's also very, very clear. Sharp. Magnified.

 _Has Derek even shaved once in Seattle?_

And he could really use a haircut.

Just a trim – she likes it a longer, but there's long and then there's sloppy. A little trim, and a blowout. She dressed herself this morning – well, she dressed _him_ self, but apparently Seattle Derek is more of a business casual type.

(Just the phrase _business casual_ is enough to make her faintly nauseated.)

"Sir?"

She turns slightly, admiring her reflection. Derek looks damned good in a French cut suit. It's something about his lean torso and the way the jacket just hugs in all the right places. She hasn't seen him in one in a while, but –

"Sir?"

Oh, they're talking to her.

Reluctantly, she drags her eyes away from her reflection. "Yes?"

"The suit fits you nicely," the young salesman, whose skin is so perfectly buttery he must spend every day off moisturizing, gives her a friendly smile.

Is this what happens when men shop alone?

Where's the complimentary glass of champagne, the _ooh_ ing and _ahh_ ing and pronouncements of how fabulous she looks?

The salesman must see her disappointed expression. "Would you prefer to try another suit?"

"No, thank you." She smooths down the jacket again, over her hips – well, his hips. Then she stares into the mirror again, feeling rather like that old Marx Brother's routine. She lifts her hand – but it's Derek's hand. She widens her eyes – but they're Derek's eyes. She sticks out her tongue, and –

And remembers where she is.

She turns back to the salesman, who looks a little nervous. "Let's talk about shoes," Addison says, standing up a little straighter.

The salesman scurries off, looking thrilled to have a reason to leave.

When he returns, Addison can't help sighing with sheer relief.

Loudly.

She's going to throw Derek's scruffy shoes into the lake and let the fish eat them before Derek can eat the fish. It's the circle of life.

Because the shoes she's about to slide into are absolutely gorgeous.

… based on the looks of confusion from two salesman and three customers, apparently men don't moan in ecstasy when they try on shoes, even perfect Italian loafers with leather so supple she'd like to rub it over her entire body.

And apparently men don't say _this leather is so supple that I –_ well, the point is, the loafers are gorgeous.

She takes them in three colors.

She takes the suit, twice over, and more pieces that she knows Derek will appreciate once he wipes the Seattle scales off his eyes. _Her_ Derek.

"How do you feel about cashmere?" the salesman asks hopefully. She notices he's giving her a wide birth, but still solicitously bringing her anything she wants – apparently torn between her sporadic outbursts of ecstasy and her black card.

How does she feel about cashmere?

 _How does she feel about cashmere?_

Derek is _so_ lucky to have her to dress him.

The only person who looks happier than she feels when she's finished is the salesman, who beams when she passes over her black card.

"It was a pleasure, Mr. Shepherd," the salesman says. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

His eyes are glowing with commission.

"Dr. Shepherd," she corrects him politely.

"Dr. Shepherd," he says. "My apologies."

"Don't mention it. And yes, there is something you can do for me." She has a little time before she's supposed to meet Derek at the fountain on the first floor. "You can direct me to a spa – my skin is feeling a little tight – and you can hold all these bags until I come back."

She has a little skip in her step when she leaves – maybe it's the Italian loafers, which she wore out of the store, or the suit she's still wearing, or the fact that Derek is somewhere else entirely (inside _her_ body) so she can have a skip in her step without getting yelled at for walking _all girly._

She can just hope that wherever Derek is, he's not … galumphing around in her body like the orangutans their nieces love at the zoo.

Yes, today has been strange. Challenging. Difficult.

But is it too much to ask that Derek at least _try_ to walk like a lady?

..

"I want to be able to walk in them," Derek says, sighing as the saleswoman brings him yet another pair of shoes. "I really don't care about anything else."

The saleswoman – _Laurel_ , that's her name – looks confused but game. "Of course, Mrs. – I mean Dr. Shepherd." She looks at his feet – well, Addison's feet. "Maybe you can give me an idea of which designers fit you best?"

Derek blinks. Apparently Laurel hasn't been put off by him yet – even after he slumped into the brocade chair she offered and shunned the glass of champagne that came next.

(Champagne? Is this why Addison shops so much?)

Derek looks at her blankly.

"You're wearing Prada," Laurel says in the gently encouraging tone that Derek uses when he's helping his nephews put their shoes on the right feet.

"I am? I mean, I am," he says hurriedly, glancing at the shoes he and Addison compromised on this morning.

"And how do they fit?"

Other than causing him to trip multiple times, including rather awkwardly outside their marriage counselor's office?

"Fine, I guess."

"But you don't want something similar, or – "

"What I really want is something comfortable," he says. "Something – rugged."

"Rugged." She blinks.

She's _looking_ at him – well, at Addison – probably thinking that the uncomfortable clothing doesn't really match what he's asking for.

"Clothes you can fish in," he tries.

"Fish?" Her eyes widen.

"Well, hike, at least."

"Of course. I'm sure I can find … something." She looks less certain now. "Just, uh, give me a moment, if you don't mind, and I'll consult with some colleagues.

..

Apparently men don't moan during facials either.

Which is silly because it's Jacques Marian and she has to give Seattle some credit for having one of his certified day spas in their … mall.

Yes.

She's in a mall.

Derek was confused, at first, too –

 _Addison Shepherd, shopping at a mall?_

But once he saw it, he wasn't confused anymore.

 _Things are different on the west coast,_ that's what she hissed at him, diplomatically refraining from adding, _you're the one who wanted to move out here._

It's inarguably luxurious, all open air and fountains and stores even she can admit are passably good.

And living inside Derek's face means that her skin has been feeling dry all day – not to mention prickly.

Maybe she should have shaved this morning.

But why shave when she can pay someone to do it – and do much more than that, with charcoal peels and organic cucumber masks and super-oxygenated water to top it off?

(Fine, she's a scientist, and super-oxygenated water is total BS, but does molecular makeup really matter when it feels _so_ good?)

"I'm glad you're enjoying the treatment, Dr. Shepherd," her facialist says.

"Enjoying it? I want to move in here." She sighs, closing her eyes as a chilled aloe wrap makes her feel five years younger and about as stress-free as you can be when you're trapped inside your husband's body.

"How nice." Oddly, her facialist sounds like he'd prefer for her _not_ to move in.

Which is rather offensive.

She's certainly never encountered that at home. She circulates among her favorite spas, but she's loyal to her treatment providers. She can't imagine Sunflower, her favorite therapist at the Jacques Marian on Fifth Avenue, acting so … cold.

She just takes a deep breath. It smells absolutely delicious in here – like herbs and cleanliness and relaxation and … okay, fine, she really doesn't have time for a full-body salt scrub, even if the salt comes directly from the Dead Sea via jet each week.

 _Shit_ , she has a job.

And so does Derek. Well, she has Derek's job and Derek is in _her_ body, which has her job.

"Headache?" the facialist asks sympathetically.

 _You have no idea._

..

"What do you think?" the saleswoman asks.

Derek stands on the elevated platform, studying his reflection.

Staring back at him from a series of infinity mirrors is his wife.

 _How is this happening?_

There's no time to dwell, though, not when Laurel is standing anxiously by waiting for his approval.

So he turns back to his reflection.

The figure in the mirror is standing with feet planted a foot apart – comfortably, _hallelujah_ , in fuzzy boots as supportive as sneakers. She's wearing jeans, and she looks damned good in them.

Why doesn't Addison wear jeans more often?

His gaze travels upwards. The woman in the mirror is wearing a soft buffalo-checked flannel shirt and a close-fitting down vest over it.

She looks great.

"Who does?" Laurel asks, looking confused.

Oh, did he say that out loud?

"I meant I look great," he corrects himself. He turns a little to the side. The woman looking back at him reminds him a little of the Addison who used to study with him in medical school. Casual. Comfortable. Plus he's added his own touch, of course, so _this_ Addison looks … rugged. Woodsy. She's ready to climb mountains or catch trout or – deliver babies or whatever.

"I'll take them," he says.

"Great."

"Do you have anything else – like it?" he asks.

The saleswoman beams. "Oh, I do. Now that I understand your aesthetic – Ironic Fisherwoman – I think you're going to like what I found."

Derek doesn't have time to question the term _ironic fisherwoman_ before the salesman is holding out a thick, oversized sweater, and another pair of jeans, and Derek is escaping behind a solid-looking oak door to change away from her.

..

"All of these?"

"All of them," Derek says firmly.

"What about your skirt?" the saleswoman asks, sounding mournful. "It's vintage Chanel."

"Put it in a bag," he says, feeling more sure of himself now. "I'm wearing these clothes home."

As soon as he says _home_ he's reminded that he really needs to get back to the hospital.

He's in no hurry to try to fool their colleagues again, but Bailey seemed almost – suspicious before, and he doesn't want to deal with that either.

He only has one more stop before he leaves, a swing in his step in his comfortable shoes.

Makeup.

The woman behind the counter beams at him. "Those eyes!" she says reverently. "It would be a privilege to make them up."

"Make them up? Oh, no, that's not why I'm here," Derek says quickly. "I was hoping you had some of those … wipe things. So I can take _off_ my makeup."

"Take off your makeup?" The woman looks uncertain now. "You mean so that I can redo it?" she asks eagerly.

" … not exactly, no."

..

A bag on each arm, the indoor/outdoor breeze feeling nice on his – well, Addison's – bare skin, he heads across the marble floor to their designated meeting spot at the fountain.

He doesn't see her. That is, he doesn't see himself. The only other person at the fountain, his back to Derek, is a man in a ridiculously fancy-looking suit with professionally styled hair. He's standing with one hip jutting out, tapping the toe of his –

"Addison!"

The man turns around. "Hi," she says in his voice. She's – well, _he's_ – clean-shaven and when they get closer he smells cucumbers and the expensive scent he remembers from Addison's spa days.

"What did you do?" he asks – in her voice, coming out of her own shocked face.

"You like it?" she asks, twirling around before she can stop herself to give him a 360-degree view. Like she usually does when –

" _Addison_ ," he hisses, "don't _twirl_ in my body."

"Sorry." She strikes the most masculine pose she can summon, trying to channel Russell Crowe in _Gladiator._

Derek gives her a strange look – with her own eyes, or what she can see of them under that _beanie._

"And no, I don't like it. I look ridiculous," Derek snaps.

"You look _great_ ," Addison assures him. She widens her stance a little. Like a gladiator.

"I look like a European – "

"Derek!"

" – valet," he finishes.

"Look how well it fits."

"Would you not – pose like that, please?" He's glaring with her own eyes.

"Like what?"

"With your hip all – stop that!" He's holding onto her hips now – or rather _his_ hips, with her own hands. "Just make your hips – even."

"What are you, a chiropractor?"

"No, I'm a man. Except you can't seem to help posing me like a … swimsuit model."

"First of all, thank you," she says primly in his voice. "And second of all, what do _you_ know about swimsuit models?"

"Never mind," he says with dignity. "Just – here." He moves her hips – using her own hands, which is extra confusing.

"Like this?"

"No! Now you're – overcompensating. Just let me – "

He stops talking (in her voice), realizing that they've drawn a small crowd of onlookers. He looks down to see Addison's hands – that he's controlling, unfortunately – resting on his own hips as she wriggles them back and forth trying to appease him with a non-swimsuit stance.

"And that's how you do the merengue," he says loudly, removing his hands as quickly as he can.

Addison whirls around – in a girly way, they are going to _have_ to work on this – and sees their audience. Clearing her – well, his – throat, she turns back to him.

"I'll try to stand more like a gladiator," she says, her tone in _his_ voice making it clear that this is a major concession.

"Like a what?"

"Like a man," she says hastily. "The point is, this suit actually fits you. And you look great. Remember the Gilles suit at the MoMA gala last year when we – "

"This isn't MoMA, Addison," he mutters, "it's Seattle."

"What about you?" she asks, glaring.

"What _about_ me?" He folds his arms – well, _her_ arms – over the chest of the oversized fisherman's sweater.

"Well, it may not be MoMA, but it's also not 1985 and _I'm_ not a lesbian poetry teacher at Bennington, so what's with the outfit?"

"You happen to look good in this outfit," he says smugly.

"And you took off all my makeup!"

"You don't need makeup."

"I hate when men say that." She throws her head – well, his head – back despairingly.

"You look better this way."

"I look _exhausted_ this way," she snaps in his voice.

"Take a nap," he suggests, infuriatingly, in _her_ voice. "Relax a little – maybe take a fishing boat out on the lake."

She opens her mouth to snap back at him, then pauses, distracted by his footwear. Calf-high shearling boots that look very familiar, other than the missing strip along the sides.

"Where did you get those boots?"

"I bought them," he says.

"I _have_ them," she reminds him.

"You do?" he's confused. They seem so – practical, and comfortable. Addison would never buy shoes like these. Addison likes her shoes the way she likes her banter: uncomfortable to the point of pain, a little dizzying, and fine, _occasionally_ a little hot.

"Yes, I do," she says in his voice.

"Why don't you ever wear them, then?"

"I do wear them," she says patiently, "when the time is right. As in, not when I'm working."

At the word _working_ , they both freeze.

"We should probably get back to the hospital," Derek says, brushing her long hair out of his – well, _her_ – face.

"You want me to go to the hospital dressed like that? I mean, you want to go, dressed like, like that – as me … ." Her voice trails off. _His_ voice.

"I have a headache," she moans.

"All right, just … calm down," he says.

She's exhausted. This is – exhausting, despite how fabulous Derek's body looks in the new suit Addison's brain selected. She needs a nap. She needs _two_ naps.

She finds herself leaning her head against Derek's shoulder – except it's _her_ shoulder, and it's not particularly comforting because it's all … narrow and bony.

Beggars and body-switchers can't be choosers, she supposes, so she rests against him anyway and feels his hand come up to massage the back of her neck like he used to when she had a headache.

Except his hand is _her_ hand, which doesn't really help the confusion part of the headache, but the muscular part … that's a little soothing. Comforting, even. Plus, the closeness is nice. She'll wait until she's back in solo therapy to explore the idea of closeness with what's essentially _herself._

"Just take some deep breaths," Derek suggests in her own voice.

She nods, realizing he's right, and draws back, feeling a little better. Eyes closed, she's just about to link her arms around his neck to thank him properly when she remembers where they are.

And _who_ they are.

Hurriedly, she takes her arms down from around the neck of her own body. Her cheeks are blushing, and his too from the feel of it. A few people are giving them curious stares.

Derek draws Addison's body up to her full height. "Shoes," he says loudly, making _her_ voice extra high-pitched. "Uh. Girl things."

"Baseball," Addison adds in Derek's voice, as deeply as she can. "Fish."

"Very convincing," Derek mutters in Addison's voice.

"Because yours was so much better?"

"Look." Derek shakes his … well, _her_ … head. "We need to get to work."

"I'm not letting you take _my_ body to work dressed like an Indigo Girl!"

"You think I want you to take _my_ body to work dressed like a French waiter?"

They both pause.

"We could … compromise," Addison suggests in a small voice. Derek's small voice.

"What do you mean?"

"I could … take off the tie," Addison offers reluctantly, fingering the fragile silk she selected to compliment the perfect suit.

Derek nods, and Addison watches as her own face sets resolutely. "I could take off the hat," he says grudgingly after a moment.

"Only if I can fix your hair," Addison says, finding herself smiling.

"What's wrong with my hair? I mean, your hair?" Derek asks, reaching up with her hands to touch the disarray of red strands.

"Just a little hat hair," Addison says and Derek widens _her_ eyes.

They may have switched bodies.

They may have switched _genders_.

But hat hair is something Derek absolutely understands.

"There's a hairbrush in my purse," Addison says, gesturing to the large bag on Derek's shoulder that's giving him premature spinal curvature.

"There's certainly room for it," he mutters. "You could fit a whole salon in here."

"I wish." Addison takes a deep breath. "Look, Derek," she says – in Derek's voice – "I know this is – crazy."

"It's more than crazy."

"Fine, it's … _freaky_ , and maybe we can't fix it right now but we can still fix the things we can fix. You know what I mean?"

Actually, he does.

So he holds out his hand that's actually Addison's hand.

And Addison puts Derek's hand on top of it.

And then, with two heads spinning, the Shepherds work together like the flawless team they once considered themselves to address the pressing follicular problem they _can_ fix.

* * *

 _Aw, my babies working together on something that really matters. To be continued, of course! Chapter 5 is rarin' to go so make it worth my while and I see another Freaky Update in your very near future ..._


	5. Fabulous, Fashionable Woman

**A/N: Happy Freaky Wednesday! I am SO sorry I was gone for so long. But I'm back. I hope you're still in the mood for some Addek body-switching madness, because I am. Enjoy ... there's more where this came from! xoxo**

* * *

A _Very_ Freaky Friday, Chapter 5: _Fabulous, Fashionable Woman_

* * *

"How are my hips?" Addison whispers as they walk up the path to the hospital, fresh from their shopping trip.

"Better," Derek admits.

"Ha!" Addison gives him a saucy, triumphant grin over her – well, his – shoulder.

With _his_ mouth.

"… worse," Derek amends. "How many times do I have to tell you not to twirl?"

"That wasn't twirling. And I told _you_ to stop … galumphing."

" _This_ isn't galumphing." Derek frowns, looking down at his – well, her feet. He picks one up experimentally and places it back down. When he looks up at Addison – who is currently occupying his face – she has set his features into one of disapproval.

"Just because my shoes are comfortable," he mutters.

"Try to be a little more graceful," she suggests. "Remember, we were compromising."

"I already took off the hat!"

"Yes, and now you no longer look _exactly_ like a refugee from the Lilith Fair," she says in _his_ voice. "So thank you, for that. And I compromised too, didn't I?"

He nods reluctantly. "You … grudgingly … took out the pocket square," he admits, noticing that Addison has caused his own face to take on a longing look.

"Please don't tell me you miss the pocket square."

"I miss the pocket square," she says, sighing a little and tilting her head.

She's doing the thing.

The gooey, girly thing.

Except she's doing it with _his_ face and _his_ body.

"Addison!" he hisses.

"What?"

"Can you please – " He considers how to say _man up_ in a non-offensive way – "Man up a little?"

Okay, fine, he couldn't come up with any better way to say it.

"That's offensive!"

"Not as offensive as you pouting with _my_ lips!"

For a moment they glare at each other.

Then Addison tosses her hair.

Except she can't, so all she does is toss _his_ head like an angry horse. But he's not going to make that comparison, not when Addison is in full control of some of his most important body parts.

"Thank you," he says, conciliatory.

"Don't mention it," she grumbles. "Oh, and pull your shoulders back," she adds.

"Fine … _Mom._ "

Her eyes widen – or rather, she widens _his_ eyes. "Oh, you did not just compare me to your mother."

"You told me to pull my shoulders back!"

"I told you to pull _my_ shoulders back, because _I_ have excellent posture."

He mutters something in her voice she can't hear.

"What was that?"

"Forget it." He pulls open the door – with Addison's hand – so she can walk through first – with his body. He catches an orderly giving them a strange look. "Feminism," he explains with what he hopes is a decently feminine shrug of his shoulders and the orderly nods, apparently accepting it.

"Stop walking through doors first," he mutters.

"Stop opening them for me then!" She throws her – no, _his_ – hands up in exasperation.

"Doctors."

They jump apart at the greeting like it's 1989 again and he's been caught feeling her up in the Shepherd kids' old treehouse.

"Look, Ad – I mean, Derek – " he corrects himself, remembering their pact to use their _new_ names at work. "We just need to figure out the rest of the afternoon. Make sure we don't commit malpractice – "

" – or career suicide – "

" – that too. And then we can figure out how to get back into our – Meredith!" Derek exclaims in her voice.

Addison spins around to see a confused-looking Meredith Grey, looking from one of them to the other.

"Derek," she says, giving Addison a slow smile that the intern won't realize is totally unappreciated. "Addison," she adds neutrally with a nod in Derek's direction.

 _Addison._ Just her first name. When _she_ was an intern, she spoke to attendings with respect.

… of course, she didn't screw their husbands, either.

Fine, she can admit Grey didn't know Derek was married at the time, so really it's Derek's fault, but she could stop smiling in that – _way._ Especially since, even though Meredith Grey can't possibly know it, she's actually directing those bedroom eyes to Addison.

"Do you need something?" Addison asks irritably in Derek's voice.

At the same time, Derek takes a step forward. "Is everything all right, Meredith?" he asks warmly, in _her_ voice.

From _her_ body.

Grey looks confused. She's just – staring at the person she thinks is Derek, taking in the new outfit, maybe.

"Do I have something on my suit?" Addison asks finally, pointedly. She props a hand on her hip and, at a glare from Derek-using-her-eyes, she attempts to even out her hips and prop that hand less … jauntily.

"No. It's just – you're wearing a suit."

"I know I'm wearing a suit."

Addison senses Derek's discomfort, next to her. He keeps searching Grey's little face with _her_ own eyes, which is – well, he looks somewhere between flirtatious and dopey and it's frankly annoying. She steps pointedly in front of him.

"Right. You're wearing a suit," Grey repeats.

Addison massages her – well, Derek's – temples. She's already exhausted and the conversation just started. _This_ is why adults shouldn't date children. (Because Grey may be a decent intern, even an excellent one, but that doesn't mean the decade of life they have on her doesn't count.)

"Now that we've established I'm wearing a suit – "

"You look different," Grey blurts.

"Different from what?"

"From – you," she says. She looks almost shy. "I don't think of you as Suit Guy."

 _Well, I don't think of him as Fisherman Guy, and I've known him a hell of a lot longer._

Addison considers sticking her tongue out to really enhance the maturity of her fantasy response.

"It's okay," Grey says. "You look different, but – it's okay. People can look different, and that's okay."

"Yes, yes, _Kumbayah_ and all that." Addison glances irritably at her watch – which is actually Derek's watch, which she bought for him for Christmas three years ago. "Did you need – "

"We're having lunch," Grey says. She flushes a little and looks in actual-Derek's direction, apparently wondering if the person she thinks is Addison is going to object.

 _How polite of her._

"I mean – we were going to have lunch," she stammers, "but if you have other plans or you can't have lunch – or if you have a surgery – "

 _Or a wife?_

Addison looks from Derek's slightly guilty expression (which is on _her_ face, but Meredith Grey won't know that) to Grey's slightly uncomfortable one.

"Derek," says … Derek, but in Addison's voice, "didn't you say you were – that you had something come up?"

 _Oh, something definitely … came up. That's the whole problem._

She turns to look at her own face. So he's trying to get out of this. To keep her from having time alone with Meredith.

"Actually, no," Addison says smoothly in Derek's voice. "I'm free as a bird. Let's have lunch, Grey – I mean, Meredith."

"Okay." Grey pauses. "Does, uh, do you want to join us … Addison?"

"No, she's busy," Addison says quickly in Derek's voice. "Aren't you … honey?"

She sees Derek wince with her own body and then blush a little with her face before he speaks with her voice. "I could rearrange – "

"There's no need to do that. I'll see you later, I'm sure." Addison turns away, beckoning Grey to follow her. "Let's go," she says. "I'm sure we have a _lot_ to talk about."

..

Derek watches Addison – in his body – leaving with Meredith, and is pretty sure this can't get any worse.

"Addison," Richard says in his booming voice. "There you are."

Remembering what body he's in, Derek turns around. "Chief," he says, praying to whatever medical gods are listening that he's not about to get dragged into a fetal surgery.

"Come with me," Richard says.

"Why?" he asks nervously.

"It's a surprise, Addie."

Derek tries to smile, wondering if he can fake a heart attack. There's no room in this crazy day for more surprises. He'll fake a heart attack and get out of whatever this is. Or a – female problem. Yes, that's it. Richard can't argue with him if he says he's having _female problems._

"Chief," he says. "The thing is, I'm actually having – "

"Fine, twist my arm." He smiles broadly at the person he thinks is Addison. "You'll find out in a minute anyway, so I might as well tell you. There's a journalist waiting for you in conference room B right now."

"There is?"

"There is." Richard beams. "A journalist, and a photographer."

Derek nods. "But, Chief, I'm having – "

" _And_ a wind machine," Richard says. "Your friend suggested you would want that."

"I would?" Derek asks nervously. "Um … what kind of a … journal are we talking about here, Richard?"

It's too much to ask that it be a medical journal, right? Briefly, wildly, Derek imagines posing with a wind machine – inside Addison's body – for _JAMA_.

"None other than _Seattle Style_ magazine," Richard says proudly, "for their 'Fabulous Women: Thriving After Thirty' issue."

"Thriving After Thirty?" Derek repeats dubiously. Is it just him or is that … strange, and maybe vaguely offensive?

" _And_ they want you on the cover!" Richard booms, still looking pleased with himself.

"Richard, this is actually not a great time," he tries to protest. "I should really check on some patients, and – "

"I already cleared your schedule," Richard assures him. "Don't worry about it."

 _Don't worry about it?_

"The thing is, Chief," Derek says as they walk – at least it's easier to walk in these soft boots, and he's not at risk of breaking his _or_ Addison's neck, "I'm actually … having a problem, so maybe we could postpone – "

"There's no postponing, Addie," Richard says firmly. "The journalist waiting for you is Glory McRaker herself. She spearheads this issue of the magazine, which has the largest single readership of high income women in the Pacific Northwest ages 36-44. Do you know what high income women ages 36-44 do?"

"Spend money?" Derek asks weakly.

"Oh, yes. They spend money – a lot of money – on medical care. And then they _give_ money to those hospitals. Hospitals dedicated to high risk pregnancies like the ones they might have."

Derek tries to smile. "But maybe we could just postpone …"

"I'm not asking you, Addison. I'm telling you. Glory is waiting, so let's go. Don't be nervous," he adds. "I've already met her, and we've talked about you. She's seen some photographs and she says you're exactly the fashionable, fabulous, _thriving_ woman she's been looking for."

"I am?"

"Well." Richard pauses, glancing at her outfit. "I guess today is the exception. No offense," he adds, resting a hand on his – _her_ – back as they walk. "Actually, Addie … you look quite a bit like the intern I remember from so many years ago. Brings me back." Richard smiles nostalgically.

Derek glances down at the outfit he selected for Addison. _Fashionable, fabulous woman_ indeed.

"But we all know how fashionable and fabulous you are underneath that – outfit," Richard says. "Er – _other than_ that outfit." He clears his throat. "The point is, this is a great opportunity for you _and_ for this hospital, so get ready to introduce the Pacific Northwest to Addison Shepherd."

 _I'd love to, but she's busy using my body to have lunch with Meredith Grey._

"Addison," Richard says, frowning a little. "I created this department for you. Surely you can do this for me?"

Nothing like a guilt trip. Derek wonders briefly if Richard has played this card before. "Of course, Chief," he says after a moment.

"That's my girl." Richard gives her a benevolent, paternal sort of smile. "Plus, we know you've never complained about a little publicity." He rests a hand on the wall near the conference room door, looks at him – well, her – and then frowns. "You look nervous."

"I am nervous," he admits automatically.

"You were separating fetal blood vessels yesterday, Addie. You can't possibly be more nervous about having a little conversation with a reporter?"

"No … of course not. It's just … unexpected, that's all."

"Sometimes the unexpected moments are the most rewarding," Richard intones.

Derek glances at him, trying to figure out where he's heard that before.

"It was in my fortune cookie last night," Richard admits.

He glances inside the smoked-glass window to what Derek knows is normally a conference room.

"Good luck," Richard says.

"You're … not staying?" Derek asks nervously.

"Of course not. This is _girl talk._ " Richard gives him a conspiratorial smile. "I wouldn't know what to say."

 _Well, neither do I!_

Richard just nods encouragingly as Derek pushes open the door, reluctantly, with one of Addison's hands.

Maybe Richard is right. It's just an interview. How hard can this be?

Well …

"Addison Shepherd – it's _such_ a pleasure to meet you! I have heard _so much_ about you!" The woman he assumes is the journalist, who has a lot of frosted-looking hair and speaks with a _lot_ of italics _,_ holds out her arms.

Derek, a little confused, tries to figure out what he's supposed to do. Is this one of those girl things where – oh, it is. They end up in a very strange sort of not-hug in which their bodies aren't quite touching and they're both kissing the air and he has no real idea what's happening. He's also a little high from the cloud of perfume surrounding him.

"I'm _Glory_ ," the woman says when their awkward half-dance has concluded. "I'm going to be interviewing you and we're going to get to know each other _very well_."

That sounds … worrying.

"But _meanwhile_ , it's ridiculous to be _this_ gorgeous and also _brilliant_ ," Glory gushes. Her gaze skims over Derek's outfit – the one on Addison's body. "Soooooo … what's going on _here_?" she asks.

"Where?"

"The _thing_. The outfit." Glory gestures to Addison's body, the one Derek is currently occupying. "Okay, I get it. You're doing a sort of – _vintage retro fisherwoman vibe_ ," the reporter says slowly. "Ironic. Yes, I like this. Great vibe."

"… thank you," Derek says cautiously.

"Whose boots are those?" Glory asks.

"Mine," Derek says automatically, pleased to know the answer.

Glory blinks, then suddenly bursts into laughter.

Derek smiles weakly, wondering whether he can fake a page to get himself out of this.

Then he remembers Richard's guilt trip.

"Have a seat, and we'll _chat_ ," Glory coos, pointing.

Reluctantly, Derek lowers himself into a chair, then remembers Addison's nagging and stops gripping the armrests, forces himself to sit up, and crosses his legs as far as he can – oh, he can actually cross them twice, it's either impressive or disturbing or both.

Finally, he tries to loosen his wrists as he folds his – well, Addison's hands together on one of his – well, her – knees.

Smiling as believably as he can, he looks over at Glory, whose skeptical expression is making him nervous.

"So, Addison," she leans forward conspiratorially. " _May_ I call you Addison?"

Derek nods.

"You know we're _thrilled_ to be featuring you in _Thriving After Thirty_ ," Glory says. "It's _so_ _inspiring_ for our readers to see someone like you."

"It is?" Derek asks. "I mean, it is," he says hastily when Glory's brow furrows.

"Some women feel their lives are over after – well, I don't need to tell you."

 _Um … you probably do._ Derek just smiles weakly, confused about why the article seems to suggest that there's something wrong with being over thirty.

"And here you are, so _fabulous_ , at," she looks at her notes. "Thirty-six!"

"Thirty-eight," he corrects automatically.

Glory's eyes widen. "Thirty- _eight_? Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Don't you think I remember my own w – I mean my own birthday?"

"I suppose," Glory says tightly, not sounding particularly convinced.

Derek leans forward, then tries to arrange his hands delicately again in a way Addison would want. He ends up nearly falling off the chair instead.

"Look," he says once he's upright again. "Do you really think Ad – I mean that I – could have accomplished _this_ much in thirty-six years? It's barely believable that I could have done it in thirty-eight!"

"Well. Your confidence is certainly … _refreshing_ ," Glory says, not sounding entirely convinced.

Derek nods with finality, assuming the topic is over.

"Let's move on. As you said, you're a _highly_ accomplished woman."

Derek nods. That much is clear.

"Our readers will want to know you. Really _understand_ you and how you've managed to achieve so much and still be _so_ fabulous, at thirty … _something_."

Derek nods again. He's a little concerned, but he can handle this part. He and Addison have spent their entire careers together. Pronoun confusion aside, he knows he can speak believably about Addison's career choices, the rise of her surgical stardom, her controversial but rewarding choice to serve another fellowship and seek out a second board certification.

Whatever the next question is, he'll be ready.

"Addison." Glory leans forward as if her next question is deeply urgent. "Can you tell me, in as much detail as possible – "

Derek nods again, encouraging her to continue.

" – about your skincare regimen?"

..

"Coffee break time!" Glory calls out, glancing at her reinforcements. There's her scowling but effective assistant, and the photographer who has been readying his equipment.

Truthfully, Glory wouldn't mind something stronger than coffee. It's not that she doesn't like her job. It's not that she's not damned good at it, either. She's Glory McRaker. She's interviewed first ladies and Hollywood stars and titans of industry.

It's just that Addison Shepherd is ... well, she's not quite what Glory expected.

She flips through her notes. Apparently Dr. Shepherd's skincare routine – and her skin is impressive, no makeup and glowing with health – involves "some stuff in a jar." When Glory raised her eyebrows at that, Addison looked worried and added, "there might be some other stuff too." She washes her face "pretty much every day, I think," per Glory's interview notes, and drinks "a regular, I guess" amount of water. Her moisturizing regime?

"Other stuff in a jar."

Glory looks across the room at her interview subject. Addison is pacing, looking a little worried herself. The woman takes very long strides – she _is_ tall – with a rather wide-legged stance, her arms swinging loose at her sides. Between her swaggering gait and the outfit, Glory is reminded of her early college days at Smith.

So … it's not _exactly_ what she was expecting, but she can't say the woman isn't gorgeous. She can work with this. Glory McRaker has never met raw material she can't mold into _fabulous._

Besides, Addison is probably just not used to answering so many questions about herself. From everything she's heard, Addison Shepherd is apparently a fashion plate – today notwithstanding – so Glory will just tempt her with some of the fantastic pieces she brought.

"Addison!"

The subject of her article looks over nervously.

Glory crosses the room, smiling warmly.

"Listen. I _love_ the ironic fisherwoman look, don't get me wrong. _But_ we have some really incredible looks for you that we're hoping you'll want to try. A little more … suitable to the publication."

Addison looks nervous. A long swath of red hair falls in front of her face and she shoves it back. "Um, okay," she says.

" _Great._ So. Why don't you start by telling me a few of your favorite designers, so I get a sense of your preferences? Maybe a couple of European ones and an American or two, just to make sure there's a good variety."

..

"Where are we going for lunch?" Addison asks bluntly in Derek's voice as she walks alongside her husband's ex-mistress while occupying her husband's body.

… so, you know, just a nice normal workday.

"What do you mean?" Grey asks, tilting her head a little.

Do her eyes _have_ to be so … doe-y? Addison frowns at her.

"What do I mean?" she repeats, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.

 _You're Derek. So she's not an annoying intern, she's …_

But she's not sure how to finish that sentence.

"Lunch," Addison says patiently, in Derek's voice, channeling all the times she's had to explain cervical dilation to new interns. "We're having lunch. Where."

"Here," Meredith says, and points.

Addison follows her gaze. "This is a hallway."

"It's _our_ hallway." Grey looks embarrassed when she stares. "I mean, not like that, just – well, this is where we had lunch the last few times, so I just thought … ."

Grey's voice trails off.

 _The last few times._

So Addison's not the only one who's been keeping secrets.

* * *

 _To be continued! In fact, I have another freaky chapter pretty much in the bag, so let me know that you're still on board the body-switching train. Thank you as always for reading, and I hope you'll review and let me know what you think! I love hearing your thoughts. ;)_


	6. Don't Answer

**A/N: Happy April Fool's Day! It seemed like the right time to post the next segment of this story. It's double long and, as usual, double trouble. I hope you enjoy this Addek body-switching madness!**

* * *

A _Very_ Freaky Friday, Chapter 6: _Don't Answer_

* * *

Let's get one thing clear, okay?

He's not stumped.

Derek Shepherd doesn't get _stumped._

Derek Shepherd … is a world-renowned neurosurgeon with one of the highest board scores his graduation year. To say he's used to answering difficult questions – would be an understatement.

This one, though?

The one posed to him by the very enthusiastic, _very full of italics_ journalist currently interviewing him for an article on _Thriving After Thirty?_

The question: _why don't you start by telling me a few of your favorite designers?_

Yeah, that one wasn't on the boards.

Oh, and there's also the fact that he is, for some reason, currently located in the wrong body. In his wife's body, to be clear.

And fine … he's a little stumped.

Because the searching faces of the journalist – _Glory_ , that's her name, _italics galore_ – and her assistant make it clear that _don't answer_ isn't an option.

"Um …"

Desperately, he searches his memory for an answer.

Addison must have said something, sometime. In fact, this morning – not a morning he's likely to forget any time soon, since it's the morning he woke up inside his wife's body, and not in the fun way – wasn't she saying something when he was trying to dress in her clothes?

With all they've managed this crazy day, getting discovered because he can't think of a designer would be … ridiculous. That's all he needs: to admit he's not really Addison and end up getting himself – well, _herself_ – committed for being absolutely out of his –

Yes!

 _La Perla._ That's what Addison was nagging him about this morning when he accidentally tore a pair of her ridiculously complicated panties.

He pronounces the name now triumphantly.

Glory gives him a curious look. "Yes, well, this is really more of a … _family-friendly_ shoot. Clothed – well, _you_ know how is."

Oh, right. He feels Addison's cheeks blushing – which is interesting to experience from the inside rather than from the outside. And he _is_ experiencing it, which makes him think that Addison's consistent protests of _I am not blushing_ are rooted in fantasy.

But he needs to focus on the question.

Designers.

So _La Perla_ doesn't work. But didn't the salesperson say something when they went shopping?

"Prado," he says quickly, then smiles with what he hopes is well-concealed anxiety.

"The museum in Madrid?"

"Prad _a_ ," he corrects himself, flushing again.

Damn it.

"All right," Glory says slowly. "Is that the only – "

"Vintage Chanel," he bleats, recallingwhat the saleswoman said, critically, when he instructed her to bag up the uncomfortable skirt he'd worn to the store.

Glory nods.

What else did Addison say this morning, in his voice – oh, right! _The Gilles suit at the MoMA gala._ She loved that suit, and when she took it off him –

But that's a story for another time.

Now, he just spits out the name.

Glory looks relieved, then confused. "Gilles is _wonderful_ , but he doesn't have a women's line, as I'm _sure_ you know." Glory pauses after her usual excess of italics. " _Unless_ … this Ironic Fisherwoman Androgynous vibe means that you're …"

"No," he says quickly.

Derek looks warily at the … thing … Glory is holding out. It's fabric, that much he knows, but what it is and where on his body it goes he has no idea. And then she's layering something on top of it that, to his horror, has an entire row of tiny diagonal buttons and a lot of diaphanous material: it could be anything from a small duvet cover to a large glove. He has absolutely no idea what he would do with any of it.

"Of _course_ , Veruca can help you dress," Glory offers, gesturing to a younger woman manning the clothing racks. She has jet-black hair sticking up in points over her head and a complicated-looking leather outfit that Derek really hopes isn't inspiring whatever it is they were planning for Addison. "But I _assume_ you'd rather do it on your own."

"No, I need help," Derek blurts, then clears his – well, Addison's – throat. "I'm, uh, I'm a surgeon, so I have to protect my hands." He holds both hands out in front of him, still surprised every time since this bizarre day started that the hands are not his at all. Addison's very familiar hands take up the center of his vision now, from the sparkling rings on her left hand to the perfectly-shaped nails that he can still remember as the much different, slightly gnawed version on the girl he met in medical school.

Both the journalist and Veruca look unimpressed.

"Surgeons never dress themselves," Derek announces, keeping his hands out in front of him helplessly like he's just scrubbed in. "If they can help it. Too risky for, uh, overtaxing the ligaments. A lot of damage can be done from … zippers and, uh … and buttons."

He stops talking.

 _So it's not just Addison's body you've taken over, but her rambling? Great._

" … got it," Veruca says without inflection. She holds out her hand, which has long, shiny black nails filed to points, like talons. Derek shudders, then squares his – well, Addison's – shoulders, and follows her behind a hastily erected Japanese screen to put on … whatever that is.

How bad can it be?

..

Meanwhile, Addison is preparing to have lunch with her husband's ex-mistress.

While occupying his body.

... as you do.

(Not at all freaky.)

"Of course," she says briskly now, managing to keep the sarcasm out of her – well, out of Derek's – voice. "Our usual spot."

 _So this isn't a one-time lunch for them._

To distract herself from the sting of it, she glances at Grey, waiting for her to produce some actual lunch. _Interns._ They have to be prompted all the time. "Did you order food, Gr – er, Meredith – or … ."

Grey looks confused again. "I brought us a sandwich," she says, and there's a foil-wrapped square in her dainty little hand.

Addison has to forcibly keep from rolling her eyes. Of course the Seattle version of her husband is brown-bagging it in the hallway with an intern, _like_ an intern. It makes sense that Grey was shocked to see him in a decent suit a few moments ago if he spends all his time in Seattle wearing LL Bean chic and eating PB&J in a hospital hallway.

Grey is … looking at her. Is she waiting for something?

"Yum," Addison offers after a few moments of silence, hoping she doesn't sound as sarcastic as she feels.

"… Derek?" Grey asks, her tone tentative.

"Hm?" Addison is trying to unlock her jaws. PB&J and nothing to drink – at least she doesn't have to worry that anything unsavory has been happening on these hallway dates. She couldn't open her mouth – well, Derek's mouth – if she tried, for a simple kiss much less anything more … intern-y.

Her nose wrinkles at the mental image.

"Did you mean what you said?" Grey asks, still in that same plaintive sort of tone.

Did she mean – or rather, did _he_ mean …

… which means there's no good answer to this. Addison just makes a helpless sort of face and gestures to her mouth, currently mostly stuck together with peanut butter, hoping Grey will give her a little more to go on.

"About the trailer," Grey prompts.

 _You mean that it couldn't be more obvious if he tried that he bought the trailer to piss me off, and is making me live in it to punish me? That thing about the trailer? Yeah, he meant it._

Addison swallows, with some effort, then grudgingly accepts a sip of water from Grey's water bottle. Not like they haven't already, by the transitive property anyway, shared bodily fluids – and then her nose wrinkles again.

"What about the trailer?" she asks, with Derek's voice, when her jaws are mostly unstuck.

"You don't remember?"

"If I did, I wouldn't ask," Addison retorts before she can stop herself, then feels a little guilty.

 _Not Grey's fault. Not Grey's fault._

"That you're not moving out of it," Grey continues.

"Oh, that. No, apparently we're not."

Addison tries not to think about the beautiful home she used to share with her husband in Manhattan. About all the _space_ , alone and together. Her office with the antique writing desk that used to belong to her great-grandfather Bradford. Their sleigh bed with the to-die-for hand-filled mattress Derek complained about and then had to admit was magic for the sore muscles of an overworked surgeon. The beautiful built-ins in the formal dining room, oversized and grand enough to hold a blown-up wedding portrait. They were married in the spring and chunky apple blossoms are everywhere in the photo, pink and fluffy. They bloom for such a short period, but they were all in play that day, as if Mother Nature herself wanted to make sure the Shepherds' wedding was picture perfect (despite any disagreement from Mother Shepherd).

"I'm glad." Grey glances at her ... at the person she thinks is Derek.

Addison feels distinctly uncomfortable, but Grey doesn't seem to notice that anything is wrong.

"And I'm glad you were … with Addison this morning," the intern continues.

She's surprised. "Why's that, exactly?"

"You know, I mean, I'm glad you're working on it. That you're the kind of guy who tries to work on his marriage."

 _He is? Since when?_

"Especially after what she did," Grey adds sympathetically.

Addison feels her hackles rise. "It's a little more complicated than that," she reminds the intern, in her husband's voice.

Grey looks unconvinced. "I can't imagine anything worse," she says, "than what they did to you. But you're still … you, and you're still giving her a chance. I can't think of anyone else who would do that."

Addison feels faintly nauseated and not because of the grainy hippie bread Grey used for the sandwich, the kind Derek prefers. It's more the kind of nausea she would sometimes feel spending time with Derek's mother, who tended to talk about him as if he was the human combination of Paul Newman, Marie Curie, and Jesus Christ.

Don't get her wrong, she loves Derek and has for a long time and he's objectively … well, _Derek_ , but the last thing the man needs is even more ego stroking from an obviously besotted intern.

Speaking of besotted interns – didn't he break her heart? Why is she still so … besotted?

And why is Derek getting _so_ much credit for working on his marriage?

"She walks around here like she hasn't done anything wrong," Grey continues before she can say anything.

Addison feels her – well, Derek's – face flush a little. Grey has no idea. Addison is well aware of how much she's done wrong. What is she supposed to do, wear a sandwich board that says _Adulterous Bitch on Board_ instead of couture?

"Do you think she's even sorry?" Grey asks.

Addison's eyes widen automatically.

"Sorry," Grey says, "I mean – we don't have to talk about this." She rubs her forehead for a moment. "I didn't get a lot of sleep last night."

"Working late?" Addison asks neutrally in her husband's voice, trying to shift the conversation away from their shaky marriage.

"We were working together, Derek," Grey says with the air of a reminder. "On the Peterman case?"

"I meant … after that." Addison grits her teeth. Well, Derek's teeth, but they line up nicely thanks to the orthodontia Carolyn Shepherd still brings up, annually, as one of the many financial sacrifices she made for Derek's future. … and the future of the world he was messianically born to save or whatever, to hear her tell it.

"I'm just … tired. I guess I haven't slept well in a long time," Grey says quietly. There's a faraway look in her eyes.

 _Join the club, sister._

Grey looks like she's going to speak again.

Then Addison feels a sense of dread. _Don't say since he left you. Seriously, don't say it. I don't think I can handle it._

"Meredith," she says instead.

"Yeah?" Grey's face softens, apparently just from hearing her name spoken in Derek's voice.

 _No. Stop falling for him._

"You know, he's – I mean, I'm – not perfect. No one is."

She just smiles a little like he's flirting.

 _Great. Nice work, Addie._

"You took your wife back," Grey says pointedly. "If that's not being a perfect husband, what is?"

Spoken like someone who's never been married.

"It's more complicated than that," she repeats.

"See, you said that before." Grey's singsong inflection irritates her, but she can't deny she's falling back on – no, it's not an excuse.

It's true.

It's complicated!

"Derek."

Addison sighs. It's complicated. It is.

"Derek?"

Oh, right. That's her.

"Yes?" she says, turning to face Grey, who looks slightly confused at what must seem like Derek's selective hearing.

"Is she sorry?" Grey asks.

Addison just stands there on the catwalk with an excellent view of Seattle and a gnawing discomfort in her – well, Derek's – stomach that has nothing to do either with the overly fibrous boy-scout lunch or the fact that men's waistbands apparently hit at a supremely uncomfortable part of the torso.

Of course she has to have an awkward post-affair lunch with Meredith Grey while Derek gets off scot-free in _her_ body. Longingly, she wonders what he's doing with all his freedom. Maybe a leisurely lunch in the outdoor cafeteria she doesn't like to admit is actually pretty nice. A salad or something else dignified that can be eaten with an actual fork.

 _Coffee._

Everything is easy for Derek, even when he's in _her_ body.

..

"My, uh, my second-favorite designer?" Derek asks faintly, buying time. He reaches for a tissue to blot some perspiration off his forehead. His whole face feels stretched and sticky, like a mask, much less comfortable than whatever makeup Addison put on him this morning in the trailer that, admittedly, he enjoyed washing off while he was changing her look. Veruca doesn't exactly have a light touch, though, and his face feels like wet plaster about to crack. "Um … ."

Glory looks less than impressed, and just about as tired as Derek is of the interview.

"Why don't we _switch topics_ ," she suggests drily and Derek responds with so much eagerness he almost falls off the stool where he's been uncomfortably perched.

"Our 'Thriving After Thirty' issue really examines some of the _tricky_ parts of being a _fabulous_ professional woman," the journal continues. "All of the _extra difficulties_ in the workplace _and_ at home. I'm _sure_ I don't have to tell _you_ about that."

"Sure," Derek echoes without expression, in Addison's voice. Glory has had enough italics for the both of them.

But … extra difficulties? As far as he can tell, Addison has had it pretty easy in the workplace, at least this one. Everyone gushes over her brilliance – not that he would deny it himself – and she's managed to somehow make herself the sympathetic one when she slept with her husband's best friend. She wanted Derek to take her back, he took her back. She moved into the trailer without much actual permission, just like she moved into Seattle Grace.

Glory is just looking at him and Derek smiles back weakly, with Addison's face.

"I'd _love_ to hear your insights," she prompts, sounding tired.

"My insights," Derek repeats. Unconsciously, he reaches up to scratch an itch on his face.

"No!" Veruca screeches, rushing to his side. "You'll wreck your makeup!"

"Sorry," Derek mutters.

"So … your insights."

"About the _workplace_ ," Glory prompts.

"… right."

"For example," Veruca suggests. "Sometimes people assume I'm an intern. Because I'm a young female fashion assistant."

"Oh." Derek considers this. "I don't think anyone's ever assumed Addison, I mean I … am a young female fashion assistant."

"Or a nurse?" Glory prompts, sounding rather … tired.

Derek considers this for a moment. Actually, it does sort of ring a bell. "Maybe?" he says doubtfully. "Actually, yes, come to think of it, particularly when we were residents – but what's wrong with that?" he asks, furrowing his – well, Addison's – brow. "Nurses are great. It's not an insult to be mistaken for a nurse."

"No," Glory says thoughtfully, "but it's an _assumption_ , isn't it?"

"I guess so?" Derek frowns.

"Why don't they assume your husband is a nurse?"

"Because – " Derek stops. Because he's a man? That doesn't sound right. He tries to remember what he heard that time he watched Weiss – "that calls for speculation!" Derek says triumphantly.

"You're not on _trial_ ," Glory says, sounding puzzled. "But of course the difficulties of being a woman in the workplace are _diverse._ There's having a family. Or should I say _delaying having a family._ "

Derek winces a little. He and Addison … they're a family. _Were_ a family, whatever. But he knows what kind of family Glory means.

 _Do you think it would have been different? If you'd had kids?_

"That's a choice," he says quietly, avoiding the two women's gaze. "We, uh, we discussed it. It hasn't been the right time. Yet."

 _Will it ever be the right time for you, Addison?_ That's what he asked his wife, the last time they argued about it. His – well, _her_ – cheeks flush a little at the memory.

"It is and it _isn't_ ," Glory says thoughtfully, "a choice, I mean. It's not as if you can have your husband carry the baby."

 _Oh, you'd be surprised._

"Obviously not."

"And so you're the one who would have all the physical symptoms and effects."

"Well, yes," Derek says in Addison's voice, "but – "

"As well as missing out on professional opportunities."

"I wouldn't – "

"And those are just the _logistical_ ones," Glory says, turning to Veruca now. "Missing extra, late-night work because you have to get home to a baby or because of nausea, exhaustion, don't get me _started_ on pumping."

Derek hopes she's both started _and_ finished talking about pumping; fourteen nieces and nephews later, he's heard _and_ seen quite enough about that, thank you very much.

"Forget logistical," Veruca says, sounding more engaged than Derek has heard her. "What about how the men at work treat you – _Mommy Tracking_ you, thinking you're less capable, looking at you differently?"

"We don't do that," Derek says weakly. "I mean, they don't … do that … here."

Glory throws back her head and laughs. "Are you telling me _this hospital_ is different from every other hospital?"

Derek opens his mouth.

He remembers Bailey stomping around, heavily pregnant, complaining that the Chief took her off several high-profile cases.

He remembers Meredith telling him about what Karev did at the beginning of the year, pinning up pictures of Stevens during her lingerie modeling days in the locker room to try to embarrass her.

He remember Weiss telling him, _we're not starting a family until Savvy makes partner_ , and it seemed short-sighted because women get older and it gets harder to get pregnant, except he never really thought about what must be hard about _getting_ pregnant.

As if seeing them for the first time, he remembers his sisters, one after the other:

Liz, in tears, telling a pre-med Derek how lucky he was: _no one will tell you your only choices are OBGYN and family med_.

Nancy, white-faced with exhaustion, working right up until her water broke in the OR and insisting on finishing the procedure so it wouldn't black-mark her stats.

Kathleen, rolling her eyes after the first patient said she was _too pretty to be a shrink_ , and then narrowing them, angry, after the fourth.

He listened, before.

Didn't he?

"Don't get me started on the dirty old men," Veruca adds, her tone conspiratorial. "I was Claudio Ruby's intern out of school, and he hit on me pretty much daily."

Derek wrinkles his – well, Addison's – nose. Sounds like a Mark Sloan move.

"I actually dated my boss when I was an intern," Glory cuts in, her tone oddly free of italics for once. "Can you believe it? I could have said no, of course." She pauses. "I mean, I'm sure I could have, but I didn't. It didn't seem right."

"A boss dating an intern?" Veruca widens her eyes. "That can't work."

"But sometimes – " Derek's voice trails off. "I mean, those bosses knew you were interns when they … when you … ." He stops again. Both women are looking at him.

"The power dynamic," Glory announces. "The … entitlement."

"It's not always like that," Derek says, his voice small. Well – _Addison's_ voice is small.

"You're saying you've never noticed this?" Glory's eyes widen. "Addison," she says.

Just her name.

And it jogs a memory.

A younger Addison, a second-year resident, her voice rising with frustration. _So then he said I could assist with the procedure if I would … change in the attendings' locker room._

Derek, shocked and protective, _what did you say?_

Addison, tears in her eyes: _he's the only one at the hospital who does this procedure, Derek. It's my career we're talking about. What am I supposed to do?_

The memory makes him shudder. She was blushing, embarrassed – but it wasn't her fault. He's certain he told her that, at the time.

He's still convinced he's different.

He would never take advantage.

… except he remembers Bailey's voice again. _If you ever favor my intern …_

The blush creeping onto his cheeks now feels like it's all his, even if they're technically Addison's cheeks.

"I've noticed it," Derek admits quietly.

Veruca nods with satisfaction. "That's all I'm saying – wait, what are you doing?"

Derek, who's pressed his fingers to … Addison's temples, turns at the photographer's alarmed tone. "What?"

"You're smudging!" Veruca and the journalist exchange a look. "We'd better take some pictures, before she … needs a touch-up."

Derek agrees, mainly because it can't be worse than the uncomfortable interview.

"We can talk more after," Glory promises – _oh, great_ – before Veruca drags Derek unceremoniously to a carpeted platform, turns on OR-bright lights, and, to his horror, flicks a button on the stereo system he hadn't even noticed, causing thumping music to fill the room.

"What's going on?" Derek asks, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

"Just be natural!" Veruca calls cheerfully. The photographer, who has been sitting there looking bored, is now on his feet looking much more engaged, snapping pictures.

Derek looks from Veruca to the journalist to the photographer, all of whom are staring at him like _he's_ the strange one.

He follows their gaze to where he's standing awkwardly on the carpeted platform, his arms hanging down.

"Move to the music," the photographer suggests.

Thumping bass fills the room: Derek's face must telegraph his discomfort with their choice.

"Try a different song," Glory hisses to Veruca.

"Everyone likes _Milkshake_ ," Veruca snaps back. "If Senator Blakely can dance to it, then Addison Shepherd can too."

A sudden gust of wind threatens to blow his – well, Addison's – body off the platform entirely.

"What the hell – "

He stops talking, wondering if that wasn't ladylike enough. "My goodness," he says woodenly instead.

"Your hair looks _great_ , Addison," Veruca calls. Derek hears her mutter to the journalist: "What's wrong with the rest of her, though?"

"She must be nervous," Glory mutters back.

"Doesn't she, like, cut people open and stuff?"

Derek winces at the critique. He'd much, _much_ rather be cutting someone open right now than trying to figure out how to brace himself against the gale-force winds _and_ remember all Addison's warnings about not … galumphing around in her body.

"Keep going, you're doing great!" the journalist calls heartily.

Between the thumping bass, the very bizarre lyrics – what does that even mean, _my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard?_ – and trying not to concuss himself (or his wife) by falling off the platform, Derek can't seem to speak.

He's also busy trying to keep some of the fluttering layers of whatever _thing_ they made him wear from turning indecent as Hurricane Gloria-style winds sting his eyes, but Veruca and the journalist both look so troubled that he attempts to give them a thumbs up in response.

And the fluttery skirt he releases blows straight up, sending the gale-force winds up his – well, Addison's – bare legs.

He yelps, thrusting the skirt down with both hands.

"Oh, I love it! Very Marilyn!" the photographer calls. "Do it again, but more demure this time, and also try not to grunt."

Derek grits his – well, Addison's – teeth.

The music continues to thump.

 _~They're like, it's better than yours, damn right, it's better than yours.~_

Better than _whose_? And _how_ is this fair? And … he might be spending too much time with Glory, because he's _starting_ to _think_ with a lot of _italics._

The point is: Addison is having a perfectly civilized, decent lunch with Meredith Grey – at least he hopes so – but either way, she's not locked in a room with freaks of fashion who are subjecting him to hurricane conditions and forcing him to listen to a song involving _techniques that freak these boys_.

Whatever that means.

"Are we almost done here?" he calls hopefully.

Veruca and Glory exchange a look.

..

Addison is glancing at her – well, Derek's – watch, wondering how soon she can cut off this lunch date. Doesn't Grey need to go study? She suggests as much.

She's just starting to hope that they're done when Grey calls Derek's name.

Which she supposes is her name now.

She rubs at the growing tension headache in Derek's forehead as she turns back.

"What is it?"

"Derek … I just wanted to say that I'm sure she's … great – "

 _Gee, thanks, Dr. Grey._

" – and I know I said I love that you're trying, but you can't keep trying forever. It's not fair to you."

Addison blinks. "He just – I mean, I just – started trying," she points out.

Grey looks confused.

"We were married for eleven years," Addison says patiently. "These things … take time."

"She slept with your best friend. Maybe she doesn't deserve that much time."

Addison feels her – well, Derek's – face flushing again. Who is _Grey_ to be telling her what she deserves?

And why does it sound so bad, when Grey says it? Enough to make her stomach clench a bit with guilt? Yes, she did sleep with her husband's best friend. But it's complicated, there's context, and –

The expression on Grey's face gives her little frissons of shame, though. She looks – sympathetic. To Derek. Because of what Addison did.

"She knows what she did was wrong," Addison says carefully.

"That's good, at least," Grey says. She looks at her watch. "I should go … study."

"You should," Addison agrees quickly, in Derek's voice. "I mean – good luck."

"Derek?"

"Now what? I mean, what?"

The intern looks hesitant, nervous.

"Just spit it out, Grey. Meredith," she corrects herself reluctantly.

"I just wanted to say that it's okay if you don't love her."

Grey says it all very quietly and quickly … and Addison's heart sinks.

"Is that what … I said?" she asks, nervously, in Derek's voice. "That he – that I don't love her?"

"You said you didn't know." Grey looks confused. "You don't remember?"

"I remember," she lies.

 _He said he didn't know. That he didn't know if he loved me._

"Well." Grey sighs. "After what she did to you, I'm just saying … maybe she doesn't deserve to be forgiven."

Addison stays behind, frozen, after Grey leaves, leaning against the railing and staring out at the sound. Is this what Derek hears when he sees Grey? How terrible Addison is?

Grey's face sticks with her. Sympathetic – because of what Addison did to Derek. Because of how she hurt him.

Derek knows she's sorry. Doesn't he? She apologized over and over when she got here.

"Dr. Shepherd!"

She turns around, her reverie interrupted. Okay, so she isn't a neurosurgeon, but she can fake what she needs until she can find the actual Derek … right? She'll just find the chief and tell him he need to go get Derek – well, she'll say _Addison_ – from wherever he's sulking.

How bad can it be?

..

"I don't understand why she's so stiff," Veruca mutters when they've encouraged Addison Shepherd to take a break so they can reload the cameras.

 _God_ , this assignment has been a chore.

Reloading the cameras … is a ruse. The cameras are fine.

This Addison chick, though – she is _not_ fine. After their uncomfortable _girl power_ conversation where Addison basically acted like she'd never been a woman in a freakin' workplace, now there's …

Well, this.

"She acts like she's never worn heels before," Glory mutters.

"Maybe we should have told her to stay barefoot."

The photographer joins them at the back of the room, throwing back an espresso shot that it looks like he wishes were something stronger.

"How does it look?" Glory asks grimly.

"She's got eyes to die for," the photographer says, proffering his digital camera and flicking through a few shots. "Incredible legs."

There's a period of silence.

"The rest is … complicated," he says, and shows them a series of pictures of Addison looking – there's no other word for it – constipated, as well as confused, fending off the wind machine like it's attacking her.

"She acts like she's never seen a camera before."

"Or a dress."

"Or the earth."

As one, the three of them glance to the opposite side of the room, where Addison has slumped into a chair to check her email, looking relieved to be away from them. Her legs are splayed, elbows resting on them. She glances up, catching them looking, and even with the stage makeup they can see her blush. Hastily, she crosses her legs.

Too hastily – she almost falls out of the chair. They watch as discreetly as they can while Addison attempts to cross her legs again, this time helping them with one of her hands.

"Could she be drunk?" Veruca asks.

"I wish I were that drunk," the photographer mutters.

"Okay." Glory claps her hands once, commanding their attention. "So we have great eyes … and great legs. That's something. That's two things."

"Four things," the photographer murmurs.

"We can work with that," Glory says firmly.

There's a pause while they consider this.

"Maybe we should try to take some candids."

They all glance over to where Addison is back on her blackberry, leaning against the back of the chair with her legs spread wide again. Idly, she scratches one calf with the opposite foot before slumping back.

 _Oh_ , they don't pay her enough for this.

But at least they're almost done. How much worse could a photoshoot possibly go?

..

"Your _left_ arm, Addison!" Glory calls, her italics somehow even worse based on her frustration. " _Left_ is the one with the _very_ sparkly jewels, _does_ _that_ _help?"_

Derek winces, pressing his – well, Addison's – lips together to keep from snapping back. He's a brain surgeon and he's perfectly aware which is his left and which is his right, it's just that these blinking lights combined with the wind machine combined with the _very_ confusing instructions from the crew … but he can do this, hopefully without tripping over Addison's oversized feet again.

That's right – as soon as he gets his body back, right after he has a very, _very_ stiff drink, he's going to tell Addison that he was right all along, she does have big feet.

(He's willing to admit this isn't his biggest priority, but in an eleven-year marriage, you do have to keep the scorecard in mind.)

" _Right_ foot, Addison," Glory calls, sounding exhausted. "And if you could _try_ not to step _quite so_ – "

His ringing phone interrupts them; he sees it light up on the chair where he left it, despite the thumping music.

"Phone," he blurts, as loud as he can. " _Phone!"_

The music shuts off.

 _God,_ what a relief.

"I'm a surgeon, I have to answer it, I have no choice," he rambles – convincingly, as Addison, he's fairly certain; his wife is an expert rambler and he's using her mouth.

Saved by the _actual_ bell – oh, great, now Glory's got _him_ using italics all _over_ the place.

But – the phone!

He glances at it – Addison's phone – to see who's calling. Oddly, there's no name. The contact information next to the little jingling telephone icon just says two words:

DON'T ANSWER

Odd.

Should he –

Glory and Veruca are watching him with a combination of distaste and eagerness that makes him feel rather like the children who follow the candy trail to the witch's … whatever.

The point is, if the alternative is more time, then he's going to answer.

"I have to take this," he murmurs, smiling Addison's friendliest and most apologetic smile.

"Shepherd," he says brusquely into the phone by way of greeting, though his voice comes out as his wife's.

There's a pause.

Then:

"Addison!" booms an unfortunately familiar voice. "Not that I'm not happy you actually picked up, but that's not exactly your friendliest hello."

Derek's stomach tightens. "Well, you're not exactly my friend," he responds, trying to keep voice light enough that Glory and Veruca won't suspect … oh, what the hell they might suspect from his completely crazy life is beyond him at this point.

But he needs an out. Of this room. _Oh_ , does he need an out.

"Should I hang up?"

"No," Derek says, hating that he needs this excuse. He gestures with what he hopes is believable urgency toward Glory and Veruca. Addison's long arms and fingers were obviously meant for her characteristically frantic gestures, so he's fairly certain he pulls it off, thanks to … being in his wife's body.

 _God, this day can't get any freakier._

"Hang on a second," he says into the phone. With the call as an excuse, he ducks out of the wind-machine-bedecked, thumping music-filled, strobe-light outfitted conference room.

"Addison?" the caller asks once the phone is back to his ear.

"Mark," he grunts, except the word is far more delicate than he'd prefer, in Addison's voice. He ducks around the corner, thrilled to be away from the journalist, her assistant, and the photographer.

"Sounds like I interrupted you in the middle of something," Mark says.

"You did. Thank god," Derek adds.

Mark whistles into the phone. "I must have saved you from a hell of a meeting if you're actually thanking me."

"I was thanking _god_ , Mark, not you," he snaps before he can stop himself. "Contrary to what you've always believed, you're not one and the same."

"Nice," Mark says. "You know, you sound a lot like Derek when you talk like that."

 _Funny you should mention …_

There's silence. Is Mark expecting him to apologize?

"It was … a hell of a meeting," Derek repeats grudgingly, in Addison's voice. "I'm … glad you interrupted."

"All right, then." Mark sounds somewhat mollified. "Since I saved you from your meeting, I think that means you should _actually_ give me a chance to talk, since you haven't any other time I've called."

"She hasn't?" Derek repeats. "I mean, I haven't," he corrects himself quickly, in Addison's voice, removing the uncertainty with some effort.

Mark has been calling?

Addison has been – not answering?

Both are news to him.

What was it Addison said about Mark, recently?

That's right, they were talking about their friendship with Meredith, and Derek said, _I'm not going to be friends with Mark._ And Addison – yes, she got that little smirk on her face he would have said was adorable, back when he was young and besotted, and said, _well, neither am I._

"So?" Mark demands down the line. He's never been one to feel anything less than entitled, in Derek's experience, so this is no surprise. "Are you ready to talk, Addison? And to actually hear what I have to say?"

 _I'm not Addison, and I doubt I'm ready for whatever this is._

Then again, Derek already walked in on the two of them _in flagranté._ There are images burned into his mind he'd pay to have removed, including his ex-best-friend's very specific, and rather disturbing, tan lines.

With that in mind – how bad can one phone conversation be?

"Go ahead and talk," he says in Addison's voice. "I'm ready."

* * *

 _To be continued (of course). Still reading, enjoying, body-switching? Any thoughts about what's next? I love reviews like Glory loves italics (and I love those too, tbh). Thanks for reading and I hope you'll review and let me know your thoughts!_

 _(More WIPs to come soon - this one was kicking around, and seemed timely, just FYI)_


End file.
